


Fear is Only the Beginning

by duplicity



Series: Not a Good Man, But a Great One [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Friendship, Gryffindor Harry Potter, Gryffindor Tom Riddle, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mystery, POV Harry Potter, POV Tom Riddle, Slow Burn, Time Travel, tags will change as the story continues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-04-21 15:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 69,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22089337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duplicity/pseuds/duplicity
Summary: BOOK TWO of 'Not a Good Man, but a Great One'.Now that they have adjusted to their new lives at Hogwarts, Tom is determined to build his reputation up even further. Harry, by Tom's side, also starts to grow into his own.But things will not remain easy for very long, and what starts as a fun year at Hogwarts quickly turns into a complicated journey of discovery.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Series: Not a Good Man, But a Great One [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1572322
Comments: 551
Kudos: 976





	1. prologue: annalise greengrass

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to book two! i am super excited to write this one for you all to read.
> 
> hope you enjoy the story. please feel free to leave comments along the way; anything and everything is appreciated!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An insight into the lives of the Greengrass sisters.

_ **March 16th, 1927** _

On an early spring morning, before dawn has broken across the sky, Cecilia Daphne Greengrass gives birth to two squalling baby girls in Greengrass Manor. She is surrounded by a midwife and two House Elves. The process of labour had been strenuous, but free of complications. The mother is strong, both magically and physically—her face, though weary and exhausted, is still elegant and beautiful.

Later, once the girls are settled in the arms of their mother, a young boy is brought into the room.

“Sebastian, come meet your new sisters.”

The two infants are sleeping now, their faces clean and rosy. They both have thatches of dark brown hair upon their heads, just like their mother.

“This is Annalise and Adelaide.”

The boy, Sebastian, steps closer. His father is just behind him, a heavy hand upon his shoulder. Sebastian peers down curiously at his new siblings. They look like little dolls with their round faces and soft tan skin, all wrapped up in thick white blankets.

“Two healthy girls,” Cecilia says to her husband, who grunts in assent. Then she adds to her son, “Why don’t you come closer and see?”

Sebastian steps right up to his mother, so that he can see the little individual lashes on his sisters’ eyelids. “They’re so small.”

“They will be bigger someday,” Cecilia says. “And you will help me watch over them, won’t you?”

Sebastian remains quiet, watching the slow movements of the limbs underneath the swaths of white, listening to the quiet sounds of the girls’ breathing. “I will, mother.”

Cecilia looks pleased. She looks down upon the children in her arms, smiling. They will grow to be beautiful, she knows, for the women in her family have always been blessed with beauty, and their beauty will be an asset for the future.

Though her husband has been satisfied with a son, an heir, Cecilia Greengrass will only find peace when her daughters achieve all that she had wished for her own life.

* * *

_ **September 1st, 1934** _

A family of five stands on Platform 9 and ¾. The eldest child, a boy, has a dark trunk with the Greengrass family crest upon it. The two younger girls fidget where they stand. Their mother has one hand on each of their shoulders. The father stands alone, apart from the rest.

“Make us proud, son,” says the father to the boy. “Do not disappoint me.”

“Yes, father.” Sebastian Greengrass inclines his head. “I won’t.”

“Remember your lessons,” says the mother. “Remember how to conduct yourself.”

“Yes, mother.”

Sebastian submits to a hug from his mother and a pat on the shoulder from his father. Then he looks over at his sisters—two identical, wide-eyed girls in frilly, poofy dresses. “Good bye,” he says to them. “I’ll see you at Christmas.”

“Bye,” says one of the girls. “Bye ‘Bastian.” She squirms under her mother’s hand, then tugs lightly at her hair, which has been braided into a plait that drapes just past her collarbone.

“Good bye,” says the other girl, who is now holding still.

Sebastian grabs hold of his trunk and tugs it towards the train, expression determined.

“I want to go to Hogwarts with ‘Bastian,” says Annalise, looking up at her mother.

“Soon,” promises Cecilia. “Only four more years, my darlings.”

“Will we get lessons, too?” asks Adelaide. “Like Sebastian?”

“You will,” confirms the father. His eyes are following his eldest child, who is now boarding the train. “We shall start this year.”

Annalise smiles happily. She is ready to be smart, to prove herself, to earn praise like her older brother. She wants to earn the regard and attention of their distant father. She is ready to succeed.

  
  


* * *

_ **1936** _

Their father doesn’t yell, not often. The danger lies not in the volume of his voice, but in the cadence, in the tone, in the words. Girls are silent, obedient, and poised. Girls are meant as decorations, as a soft smile and a pretty dress. Girls listen to their father, anticipate his requests, and act as their mother does. Their father expects all this, and he also expects perfection.

Their mother, by contrast, says less when she is angry. Her disapproval lingers sharply in her silence, in the downward slant of her brow, in the frown of her painted lips. Girls are always underestimated, always looked down upon. Girls must cater to the whims of their fathers, their brothers, their husbands. Girls can do better, but only if they accept the role they must play in front of others. Their mother expects all this, and she expects _ more_.

It is because of this that Annalise knows life isn’t the same as it is in fairy tales.

She and Adelaide had been taught how to read at a young age, and Annalise has always found solace in stories. Though things in books are dramatic and romantic and exciting, real life isn’t a single bit like that. Annalise has her parents, her brother, and her sister. A small circle of people who are always around, who are always there. But Adelaide is the only one who is always there _ for her_, and that makes all the difference.

For a long time, Annalise had wanted them to be the same. As twins, it had seemed only correct for them to do so. Same clothes, same hairstyle, same daughter. Adelaide is her other half; they have always been inseparable. But things had shifted after Sebastian had started school at Hogwarts.

With their eldest child gone, their parents had tightened their focus to their two remaining children. The daughters that they hoped to someday leverage in advantageous marriages. The lessons started slow; first they began with etiquette, then with other skills like playing piano and learning new languages.

Annalise struggles with everything. She is clumsy, she is slow. Though she knows she is smart, because Adelaide tells her so, she isn’t good enough at connecting her smarts to the rest of her. 

But it is alright, because Adelaide is there to help her.

After they’d embarked on lessons, it had become apparent that Adelaide was on a different level of smarts. Adelaide didn’t hesitate. She didn’t stop to second guess things all the time. Adelaide was what Annalise could have been, what she wanted to be, if only she wasn’t always so far behind.

Still, Annalise doesn’t let her feelings of inadequacy bother her. Adelaide is smarter than she is, is better in nearly every way, and that’s alright. Annalise has her hopes and dreams for a better future, one where they can live together somewhere far away from everything. She has no need for a hero to save her, because someday she and Adelaide will set themselves free.

  
  


* * *

** _June 1939 _ **

When Adelaide hands over her marks after breakfast, Annalise allows her brain to automatically make comparisons as she looks down the list. The numbers are impressive. If Adelaide’s done this well, Annalise wonders just how high Tom Riddle must have scored on his exams.

Tom reminds her a bit of Sebastian at times. Proud and unyielding. Dark eyes and firm convictions. But Tom can be nice when he wants to. He helps them all with homework and looks over their essays for the correct concepts. And he’s close with Harry, who is sweet and friendly, so he really can’t be all that bad.

Still, Annalise wonders what Tom will do about the Slytherins that had tripped Harry in the corridor. He seems so calm about it all that it unnerves her a little.

But by the time Annalise finally gets a moment alone with Adelaide, she’s nearly forgotten all about the incident.

She and Adelaide are huddled together in the library, which is deserted now that their exams are over. Adelaide had told her to come here so that they could have some privacy to talk.

“I think we’ll be alright,” Adelaide says, smoothing out the parchment with her marks upon the table.

“Will we?” Annalise pulls out her own list of marks. She’s already accidentally spilled water on the corner of it. “I don’t think I did that well.”

“You did,” Adelaide says. “You did perfectly well.” Her hand reaches out to touch Annalise’s.

“Okay.” Annalise takes a deep breath. “We’ll be alright,” she repeats.

“Now,” Adelaide continues, “I think next year you need to focus more on practicals. You do well enough on theory, but you let your nerves get to you too much.”

Annalise ducks her head a bit. “I know.”

“Which is alright,” Adelaide adds. “It’s perfectly normal to be nervous. But you need to push past it, you see?”

Annalise nods. “Yes, I do.” It’s times like this that she doesn’t feel like the older sister, even by a measly eight minutes. Sometimes she feels like she’s only pretending at being mature and grown up.

“Anyways, what I really wanted us to talk about was Riddle.”

“Oh?” This takes Annalise by surprise. Though she’s noticed the two of them—Adelaide and Tom—getting along better lately, it’s still odd to think of them as friends, especially when Adelaide still calls him by his surname.

“I’ve made a deal with him,” Adelaide says. “He’s going to help us, when the time comes.”

“Do you think he can?” Annalise asks. Tom is very smart and very driven, but they’re all still children, and she can’t quite see what Adelaide is thinking. She can’t really see what Adelaide thinks Tom can do for them.

“He will.” Adelaide nods. “I can tell. He’s going to be somebody, Annalise. Someday. And we’ll be on his side when he does.”

It’s the kind of Slytherin thinking that Annalise has never been able to comprehend. Making deals and exchanging favours. But she trusts Adelaide’s judgement and she likes Tom well enough, so hopefully things will turn out well.

“But what are we doing for him?” Annalise can’t help but ask.

“A few things,” Adelaide answers evasively. “Nothing you need to worry about right now. But there is something I want you to help me with.”

So Annalise listens, then promises to do her best, because that’s all she has to offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you are subscribed to the series, i would like to politely ask you subscribe to this work as well, as i can't see how many subscriptions a series has. i can only see the number of subscriptions on each individual work, and it's nice to see how many people are actively following the story :)
> 
> thank you for reading!!


	2. backsliding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Harry's summer is off to a less-than-pleasant beginning.

_ **June 1939** _

Harry and Tom’s return to Wool’s Orphanage also signals a return to other, older behaviours.

Ten months away at Hogwarts had changed many things. Not only are he and Tom different, but the orphanage is different, too. It only takes a few minutes of standing in the entrance hall for Harry to realize that Tom is going to have to reassert himself as the one in charge.

Mrs. Cole does not seem too thrilled to see them. She directs them back to their old room and tells them to be ready for supper shortly.

Harry and Tom step back into their room. Tom crackles his knuckles, flexing his fingers out.

“Didn’t miss this place,” Tom says. “Everyone here is so boring.”

Harry makes a soft noise of agreement as he tucks his trunk up against the foot of his bed. Their room has a strange smell to it. Harry wonders if Mrs. Cole had let other orphans use their room while they’d been away. Tom won’t like that, so Harry hopes it’s not the case.

“I suppose we’ll have to stay here for a while before we go anywhere,” Tom continues. “Just to see how things are.”

“Sure,” Harry says. “We’ll see how things are.”

Harry walks over to their cupboard and opens it up. There’s a scatter of plain stones resting along the bottom. There’s also a glass orb sitting on top of an old shirt. Harry touches the orb with his finger. He already misses Hogwarts. The familiarity of Wool’s feels stifling now that he’s seen what else the world has to offer. Tom probably feels the same way.

Looking over, Harry sees that Tom has already unlocked his trunk and pulled out some of his things. His journal is deposited on the single wooden desk that they share. Tom’s gaze lingers on the cover for a moment before he swoops back over to this trunk to retrieve more things. Quill, inkwell, and a few books join the journal. 

“We should be able to sell our old texts back to the secondhand shops,” Tom says.

The sudden change of topic confuses Harry, who has to think for a moment on what Tom means. September is so far away—Harry can’t help but wonder how Tom’s already able to think so pragmatically about their future when Harry’s still reeling from returning to their old room here at Wool’s.

“Yes,” Harry says, after a pause. “That works.”

“I don’t particularly want to spend all summer running errands again,” Tom adds. “But I suppose we ought to do something with our time other than study. If only we could use magic.” He scowls over at his trunk, where Harry knows his wand is tucked away.

“If only,” Harry echoes.

“Nathaniel mentioned the older Gryffindors run a betting pool for the Quidditch matches,” Tom adds. “So there’s a chance to multiply what we make.”

Harry has to take another moment to think through what that means. “Will that work even if I’m on the team?”

“It will work _ because _ you will be on the team,” Tom says, scoffing. “Harry, people underestimate us because they think we’re Muggleborns. So we have to use that to our advantage.”

“I’m sure they know not to underestimate you, Tom,” says Harry. “You’re the smartest in our whole year.”

Though he’s only staring out the window, Tom’s eyes narrow slightly. “Maybe they won’t underestimate me academically, but they still seem to think that they can get away with things.”

Harry knows that Tom is talking about the tripping incident again, so he doesn’t respond. Harry remembers Billy Stubbs’ rabbit hanging from the rafters all those years ago. And Billy hadn’t even done anything in particular—Tom had just wanted Billy out of the way so that Harry could take his place. So although their first year at Hogwarts had been relatively tame, Harry doesn’t doubt Tom’s capacity for aggression still exists.

They head down to dinner shortly after. Harry allows himself to forget about Tom’s comment; they have all summer to think about better, more exciting things.

A quick glance at the table shows that not only are there new children at Wool’s, but some of the old ones are gone as well. The new ones eye Tom and Harry with interest.

Mrs. Cole goes through the tedium of introductions before they start to eat. The food at Wool’s is terrible and bland compared to what Harry and Tom had gotten used to at Hogwarts, but Harry manages to clear his plate anyways.

Tom shoves his portion around, expression placid.

“Come on, Tom,” says Harry. “Sooner you’re done, sooner we can go back to our room.”

Tom shrugs indifferently, but resumes scooping his food into his mouth.

However, after dinner they don’t return to their room right away. Tom heads straight for the drawing room, where some of the others have gathered around with their playthings. Billy Stubbs looks up from where he’s sat in the corner with a handful of plastic toy soldiers, and Tom waves mockingly at him. Stubbs flinches, but remains where he is, shoulders squared.

Harry lingers quietly at Tom’s side, wondering what Tom plans to do. After a moment, Tom walks to the center of the room, turning a slow circle, surveying his territory. A few of the orphans who know them watch curiously. Harry supposes that, after so long, their memories of Tom’s fabled temper must have faded away. But Harry hasn’t forgotten, and so he’s wary as Tom turns to look at him.

“Let’s go back to our room,” Tom says, just loud enough to be heard across the room. Then he walks out without a second glance, and Harry has no choice but to follow him.

Tom says nothing as he shuts the door of their room with a sharp bang. He goes over to the desk and kicks it stubbornly, visibly fuming.

Harry watches this go on for some time, and then he says, “Do you want to read something together?”

“No,” Tom says. “I don’t.”

So Harry goes to sit on his bed instead, still keeping a watchful eye on Tom.

Tom continues to kick at the desk, his darkening eyes fixed upon the opposite wall. Then he says, voice full of venom, “I _ hate _ this place.”

“We can still go to Diagon Alley,” Harry offers placatingly. “And to the Weasleys'.”

“It’s not the _ same_,” Tom says, and Harry now thinks he knows the problem.

At Hogwarts, Tom is important. He is the best student in their year, the one with the highest marks, the favourite pupil of many of their teachers. At Hogwarts, Tom is notable and revered, and at Wool’s he is not. 

At Wool’s, he is feared and shunned.

“I know,” Harry says, sympathetic. He walks over to Tom, stopping less than a foot away.

“This is Dumbledore’s fault,” Tom adds. “We should have stayed at Hogwarts.”

“We should have,” Harry repeats.

Tom exhales, whipping his head to stare at Harry. “Next year, perhaps. I’ll have to work harder at befriending Professor Slughorn. If the other professors like us, and if Professor Slughorn pushes for it, then Dumbledore will have no choice but to agree.”

“That might work.” Harry bobs his head, eager to encourage Tom out of his bad mood.

Reaching out with his left hand, Tom touches Harry’s arm briefly, as though to steady himself. Then he walks over to his bed, settling down onto it. Harry moves to sit next to him.

“Less than three months to go,” Tom says, as though the words are a mantra. His eyes have gone distant again.

Harry slowly tilts over so that his arm is pressed against Tom’s. “We’ll be alright,” he promises. It hurts him to see Tom upset. Harry doesn’t mind being here, though he does miss Hogwarts, but he can tell Tom truly hates it here at Wool’s. He wishes he could do something about it.

“We’ll just have to find things to do with our time until we can go back.” Tom exhales again, his gaze turning sharp, and Harry starts to have a bad feeling in his gut, the same feeling he’d gotten when Septimus had told Tom about the Slytherins.

“Sure,” Harry says. He places his hand on top of Tom’s in an attempt to calm him.

Tom flips his hand over, entwining their fingers together. “Someday we’ll look back on this as a distant memory,” Tom says confidently. “We’ll be powerful, and then they’ll see. They’ll have to see.”

* * *

_ **July 1939** _

Summer takes a bad turn in July. Tom’s restlessness only continues to worsen, and though Harry tries his best to moderate Tom’s bad moods, it doesn’t always work. 

Tom’s gone back to sneering and snapping at people, like a feral cat that snarled if you got too close. The other orphans of Wool’s soon find themselves reacquainted with the cold, near-tyrannical boy who had ruled their orphanage with a heavy hand.

Only Harry is safe from Tom’s temper, and this fact makes Harry feel extraordinarily guilty.

To top things off, Harry’s nightmares have returned. They’d all but vanished during his time at Hogwarts, but somehow in the dingy atmosphere of Wool’s they’ve returned in full force. Though the premise of his nightmares remain the same (always the cupboard, always the fire, always _ Tom_), Harry now sometimes dreams of flashing green lights.

Tom is angry about the return of the nightmares, though he’s made very clear that he’s not angry at Harry. They’ve started to share a bed despite the humid weather, because it’s easier for Tom to wake him and comfort him if they’re lumped together.

Harry feels bad about disturbing Tom’s sleep so much, but Tom is insistent about it, and Harry has never been good at saying no to Tom. And though it continues for weeks, Tom doesn’t even blame Harry, not one bit. Tom has merely added the nightmares to his list of problems to blame Dumbledore for.

To pass the time, Harry and Tom have been working on their summer homework, but Tom’s been growing bored with the material, and Harry can tell that the only reason why Tom hasn’t already finished is because he’s trying to make it last longer.

Septimus and Annalise both write weekly, and sometimes they send old copies of the Prophet with them, but it’s not enough. The tension in Wool’s remains heavy—the warning before the storm. Though no one has actually been hurt yet, sooner or later things with Tom will escalate, and Harry wants to stop it before it happens. 

“We should go to Diagon Alley,” Harry says.

Tom is on his bed, flat on his back as he hovers a marble absently in the air with his left hand. They’d figured out that magic only registered with the Ministry if you were using your wand, and Tom had used this knowledge to his advantage, namely to terrorize the other children when it suited him.

“We could,” Tom says. “It’d be nicer if it wasn’t only shops there. I wonder why there’s no public library, like at Hogwarts.”

“There’s still the bookstores,” Harry says lightly. “And I’m sure there must be other places we haven’t gone into yet that we can explore. We could even ask to borrow the Floo at the Leaky Cauldron, like Septimus suggested, and see if there are libraries in other wizarding areas.”

“Hmm.” Tom sits up, looking interested. “That does sound like a possibility.”

So that weekend they go to Diagon Alley. Tom even gets to use his wand to tap the brick at the entrance. Once they are in the alley proper, the familiar sights of wands and owls and wizards robes are like a balm on Harry’s heart. Here, at last, is the place where he and Tom belong.

For a while, Harry allows himself to lose himself in the warm feeling of magic in the air. His wand, carefully strapped into the holster at his side, thrums whenever he accidentally brushes his hand against it.

Tom struts around, dragging them from place to place. They spend a good deal of time in Flourish and Blotts, at least until the shop owner starts to eye them curiously, after which they quickly make themselves scarce. It wouldn’t do to be questioned about where their parents are.

They go to Obscurus Books next, which is a book publisher rather than a proper bookstore, but there is a small section of books available for public perusal in the front room. Most of the books are scholarly in nature, and well above his and Tom’s current capabilities to boot, but Tom seems to find them interesting anyways. He looks over the titles and scans the summaries on the backs of the covers.

Harry follows just behind Tom’s elbow while Tom continues to browse. Eventually, they make their way back outside.

“Let’s go visit Miss Hannah’s shop,” Harry says.

Tom agrees, so they make their way back over to the North Side of Diagon Alley, where Nettle’s shop sits. Hannah is in the midst of tailoring a bright orange set of dress robes on a mannequin as Harry and Tom enter the shop.

“Hello,” Harry says.

She looks up, startled. There are ribbons and pieces of fabric draped over her right shoulder, all of which tumble onto the floor as she turns towards them. “Hello!” she says automatically. Then she registers who they are and a smile breaks out across her face. “Hello again!” 

“Hello,” says Tom. “We’ve come by to visit.”

“It’s nice to see you both,” says Hannah. “How was your first year at Hogwarts?”

“It was amazing,” Harry says.

“That’s good to hear.” Hannah retrieves her wand, sweeping up the fallen materials with a wave of magic. The items redeposit themselves onto her shoulder. “Don’t mind the mess! I’ve just gotten this very particular customer who wants _‘orange robes, long but not too long, orange but not too orange’_, and they’ve been driving me up the wall.”

With another gesture of her wand, two stools appear from behind the counter, flipping over and landing onto the floor a few paces away.

“Have a seat, you can tell me all about it while I work on this.”

Harry tugs Tom over to the stools. “Hogwarts is the best,” Harry begins. “We’ve learned so many things already. And there are ghosts in the castle, and the Great Hall is _ huge_.”

Clambering onto a seat, Harry proceeds to go over the school year, with Tom only occasionally interjecting to add a point here and there. He finishes off with the end-of-year marks, making sure to talk up how Tom was the best.

“You should both be very proud of yourselves,” Hannah says. There are now bits of string tangled all over her head. “That’s very excellent for your first year, and I’m sure you’ll only continue to do better in the future.”

“Thank you,” says Tom.

“Who won the House Cup, by the way?” asks Hannah.

“Ravenclaw,” says Harry. “Because they won the Quidditch cup, too. So they had the most points.”

“Oh, well.” Hannah shrugs. “Maybe next year, then? Gryffindor pride!”

“Harry’s going to play Seeker on the house team,” Tom says. “So we’ll be winning for sure.”

“You’ve got brooms?” asks Hannah, squinting.

“Some classmates of ours are loaning me one,” Harry tells her. He still feels bad about the broomstick, but Annalise is determined to act as though nothing is amiss, and Adelaide is strangely just as adamant as Septimus is that Harry practice flying.

“That’s nice of them.” With a final flourish of her wand, Hannah takes a step back from the mannequin. The orange robes are now a darker, less vibrant shade that could probably be better described as brown, and there are large, frilly yellow bows attached along all of the hems. Harry thinks it looks rather ugly, but he has the feeling Miss Hannah already knows this.

“Sorry for not writing during the year,” Harry adds. “We don’t have an owl or anything, and we don’t have the money to rent the school ones.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. I wasn’t really expecting anything!”

Harry watches as the robes slide off of the mannequin, folding themselves neatly in the air before they sail over to the counter, settling down into a cardboard box.

“We should be heading back soon,” Tom says. “It’s getting late, and we shouldn’t be missing supper.”

“Of course, of course,” says Hannah. The box on the counter gets a sheet of tissue paper added to it, and then the entire thing seals itself shut. “How’s your summer been going so far, though? Not too much homework?”

“Not too much,” Harry echoes. “But it’s a bit hard to do things since we don’t live in a wizarding home.”

“That’s very true.” Hannah walks over to the counter, pulling a roll of labels out from behind the counter. She peels a sticker out and slaps it onto the package. “Do you have any friends you can spend the summer with? Ones with lenient parents or guardians, I would hope.”

“Some,” Tom says. “We’ve made some plans.”

“Good!” Hannah gestures at the package with her wand, which levitates into the air, moving through a doorway just behind her and disappearing into a back room.

“Well,” Harry says, slipping off of his stool. “I guess we should go back to Wool’s.”

“It was nice to see you both,” Hannah says cheerfully. “If I don’t see you again, I hope you have a fantastic second year.”

He and Tom depart. On the walk back, Tom has a thoughtful look on his face. He’s chewing absently on his lower lip, his gaze far off.

“What are you thinking about?” asks Harry.

“I wonder if it would be possible to stay with someone else over the summer,” says Tom. “Even just for a while. Septimus says he has lots of siblings, so his house must have a lot of empty rooms.”

Staying with Septimus would be fun, Harry thinks. They could read more about Quidditch and do their homework together. And Tom would be more content in a magical household, where he could practice things without fear of getting into trouble with the Ministry.

“I like that idea,” Harry says. “We can see what Septimus thinks when we go to see him this summer.”

Tom nods. “The Greengrasses are likely not a possibility, but now that others have started to hang around our group at school, I don’t suppose it will be hard to arrange for some other visits after our second year is completed.”

“Do you think Annalise and Adelaide’s parents will let them visit the Weasleys?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Tom says. “I think it will depend how well their marks were received. Their brother won’t get his OWL marks until the end of summer, so the pressure is all on them to perform.”

Harry doesn’t like the sound of that. “I hope their parents aren’t too hard on them.” Though Annalise’s letters haven’t given any cause for alarm, he knows that she’d been extremely worried about going home for the summer.

“Adelaide seemed to think they’d be able to handle it.”

They arrive at Wool’s. Tom pauses on the pavement just outside the gate, brows pulled together. Their afternoon of respite is over. They are back to being two orphans in a sea of many.

“Two more months to go,” says Harry.

Tom exhales. “Two more months.”

The two of them step through the gate together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you everyone for the awesome response to the previous chapter :') really means a lot that you all like the story so much. had fun writing this chapter; i think this one plus the prologue sets the tone for what i imagine for the rest of this arc quite nicely.
> 
> still in the middle of slowly hammering out the details for this while i work on my other WIPs, soooo updates will be a little more spaced out for now i think. once i have a better idea the updates will be faster.


	3. priorities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry finds himself dealing with more than just Tom's poor behaviour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel like i ought to say something about the mood of this chapter being kind of? low key sad? melancholy?

In late July, Septimus finally sends them with an invitation to his house.

_ Sorry for all the delays,_ he writes. _ One of my brother’s got engaged and mum’s been going nutters over all the planning because they want a summer wedding. _

Both of Septimus’ parents work full-time jobs, meaning that Septimus and Nathaniel usually have an entire house to themselves. Harry had wondered if the Weasley parents had been reluctant to host a bunch of young children, but now a date has been set, and so Harry and Tom have something to look forward to. Harry writes Annalise to see if she and Adelaide are going to be able to come, but he doesn’t get a response all week.

“Should we be worried?” Harry asks Tom.

Tom’s in the middle of finishing his Charms essay on the Switching Spell. “I shouldn’t think so. If they can’t come it’ll be a shame, but there’s nothing we can do about that right now.”

The bluntness of the remark makes Harry frown. Ever since mid-March, Harry’s had the feeling that something is wrong. Septimus had made a few comments on the strangeness of the twins’ relationship with their parents, but Annalise and Adelaide only ever act as though they’ve had an over-protective, traditional-type upbringing. So Harry isn’t quite sure what to believe, though his gut tells him nothing good is happening at the Greengrass household.

Still, he tries to put it out of his mind. He works on his Charms essay with Tom. He spends his free time daydreaming about Quidditch next year on the Gryffindor team, about soaring through the air on a broomstick, the world far below. It’s a good way to crowd out the nightmares, though Harry finds himself rubbing absently at his scar more often, as though he’s subconsciously trying to push the nightmares out of his brain.

Tom’s also been nicking things again. Not a lot, and certainly nothing too noticable, but there are two new toy soldiers on their window sill and a few extras pennies in their pouch. No complaints have been lodged, but Harry knows better than to think these things have just turned up. He’s been telling Tom to stop and it seems to have worked, though Tom doesn’t actually acknowledge having done anything. Harry suspects that Tom knows he’s treading a fine line; if his behaviour crosses that line, then Harry will have to resort to threats.

Whatever small satisfaction Tom gets from the little power plays at Wool’s, it isn’t going to be enough no matter what, not until they go back to Hogwarts. Harry hopes that their trip to the Weasley’s will help alleviate some of the dark feelings that Tom is going through, because he’s not sure Wool’s will survive the rest of summer in one piece if it doesn’t.

* * *

Eventually the Greengrass owl arrives. It’s only a few days before they’re supposed to meet at Septimus’ house, which is also worrisome. The letter is addressed to both Harry and Tom, but the handwriting belongs to Adelaide, not Annalise.

The letter only contains a single line: _ We will be coming. _

Tom looks at the letter over Harry’s shoulder. His lip curls as his eyes fall upon the page.

“This _ is _ good, right?” asks Harry.

Tom shrugs. “It’s better than nothing. I wonder how she managed it.” And then Tom goes back over to the desk, where he’s been working on something or another.

Harry flattens the letter out across his lap and adds it to the pile he’s been collecting. Letters from Septimus and Annalise, and now a letter from Adelaide. It’s nice to know their friends are thinking of them. His and Tom’s ostracization at Wool’s now bothers Harry more than it used to. Before, when it had been just him and Tom, it was comfortable and familiar. But now that Harry’s horizons have expanded, now that he knows what it’s like to be in a school full of friendly faces, Harry finds he misses the cheerful atmosphere of the Gryffindor Common Room.

Though Harry has been hinting at a return to Diagon Alley, Tom seems stubbornly determined to stew in his bad mood. They don’t go outside as much as they had last summer, but Harry does his best to drag Tom out for some fresh air and sunshine every so often. Most of the time Tom caves and agrees, but a lot of July is spent lounging around in their room with Tom reading, writing, or practicing wandless magic while Harry tries to keep himself busy.

“Come on,” Harry says one morning, yanking their curtains open. “Let’s wander London today.”

Tom scowls into the bright summer sunlight, rubbing at his eyes with the knuckles of his right hand. But he sits up anyways, frowning as he looks at Harry.

“It’s too hot outside.”

“Then we can go sit under some trees,” Harry amends. “But the weather is nice, Tom. We should go enjoy it.”

“We’ll enjoy it when we go and see Septimus.”

Harry goes over and tugs on Tom’s arm until Tom swivels and puts both feet on the floor.

“Menace,” says Tom, pulling his socks and shoes on, and Harry smiles.

They get dressed and walk to a nearby park. Tom kicks at all the loose pebbles he sees along the way. Harry thinks that he’s been pretty patient with Tom’s moodiness, but the constant negativity is starting to get to him.

“Tell me about the future again,” Harry says, because it’s something that usually gets Tom excited. “Our future.”

Tom glances over at him. “This year? Or after Hogwarts.”

“Whichever.”

“I’ve been reading more about the past Ministers for Magic,” Tom begins. “Nearly all of them were purebloods or half-bloods. So I want to go back to researching my heritage this year, to see if I can find out who my parents were. Adelaide’s offered to help look through her family archives to see if there are any Riddles in her family tree. Since most of the major families are related, if I’m from an existing line, she’ll likely be able to find it.”

This is news to Harry. Though Harry had noticed the two of them talking more, he’d just assumed that Tom was warming up to Adelaide the way he had to their other friends. While it does make sense that Tom would have wanted to ask for a pureblood’s help in searching for his family, Harry wonders if Tom had chosen Adelaide over Annalise because of his brief fallout with Annalise before the winter holidays. 

“And if she can’t find anything, will we have to look for more books?” asks Harry. “Or maybe see if Septimus’ family knows anything?”

“I had considered going to ask Professor Slughorn,” Tom says. “I’m sure someone as well-connected as he is will be able to find answers. But I’d like to avoid it if possible; I don’t trust him to keep the knowledge to himself.”

“What will you do when you do find your family?” Harry is unsure if he wants the answer, because he has forgone, for the time being, seeking out the Potters.

Tom turns a critical eye on Harry. “It will depend on who they are. I wouldn’t agree to anything that could potentially separate us, you know that.”

Harry allows himself to relax. “Of course, Tom. I know that.” He does know that, but hearing the confirmation is still reassuring. Though Harry supposes that if Tom did decide to go with the Riddles, then he would be free to go seek the Potters. That would make it fair. Because if Harry was to leave now, Tom would be left with no one. But if Tom had a family too, then it would make more sense.

Still, the notion of leaving Tom doesn’t quite sit right in Harry’s gut. Being around Tom is familiar and comforting. Harry can’t imagine waking from his nightmares in a strange room without Tom there to reassure him.

* * *

Tom and Harry are to meet Septimus and his older brother Atticus at the Leaky Cauldron, where they will all Floo together to the Weasley house. Evidently Atticus is there to supervise, because using the Floo system is tricky, meaning one misstep can send you off to a completely different location. As it is a weekday, the Weasley parents will not be home, but as Atticus is somewhere in his late twenties, Harry figures he must count as proper supervision.

Admittedly, Harry is a bit scared of what using the Floo will be like. Tom had said it was safe, but Harry feels like travel-by-fire is just asking for trouble.

Harry and Tom pack their wands and some of their school things, then set off through London. By now the path to the Leaky Cauldron is one that Harry recognizes easily. If he had to, he could find his way on his own.

When they arrive at the Leaky, it doesn’t take long for Harry to spot Septimus and his brother. Septimus is wearing a plain pair of tan, wide-leg trousers and a navy blue shirt. He waves and smiles as they approach him.

Atticus is taller than Harry had expected; he towers over both Harry and Tom as he shakes their hands. He has long hair pulled back into a loose tail, and his shirtsleeves are rolled up past the elbow, exposing defined forearms. He looks mostly like an older version of Septimus, though his eyes are hazel and he has less freckles.

“Septimus says you’ve never used the Floo before?” Atticus asks them.

Harry shakes his head, but Tom says, “I’ve read about it.”

“Bookworm, right?” Atticus smiles. “Septimus told me about the study guide you lot put together. He said it was your idea.”

Tom shrugs, but he seems pleased.

Atticus then proceeds to explain to them how to use the Floo. Harry listens attentively and watches as Septimus steps inside, tossing his handful of powder upon the ground as he calls out the location of the Weasley home in Chudleigh.

“Who’s next?” Atticus asks, once Septimus has vanished in a burst of green flames.

Harry eyes the fireplace, a sick feeling of apprehension building inside of him. He’s not sure what unsettles him more, the idea of being enclosed in the fireplace, or being set alight in order to travel through it. It’s too reminiscent of his previous orphanage. The green fire of the Floo also reminds Harry of the lights in his nightmares, though he’s not sure how that can be since he’s never seen a Floo in action until today.

As Harry continues to stare, he feels Tom’s hand touch the small of his back—a fleeting gesture that helps calm him.

“I don’t suppose Harry and I could go together?” Tom asks.

Atticus hesitates, his eyes flickering from Harry to Tom. “No, Floo travel is one person at a time, unfortunately. I had thought it would be good for you boys to learn how to use it, since Septimus tells me you’re from a Muggle area. But,” he adds, scrubbing a hand over his jaw, “I can Apparate you both, if you like. Then you don’t need to use the Floo at all.”

“No,” says Harry. “I can do it.” He shakes his arms out a bit, then holds his hand out for the Floo powder.

Atticus holds the pouch out, and Harry grabs a decent handful of the stuff. Then he clambers into the fireplace before he can lose his nerve.

Tom is watching him, a crease developing between his brows. He’s likely worried. “Go on,” Tom says, gesturing. “You can do it.”

Harry takes a deep breath. Then he tosses the powder to the ground, calling out his location, and the Floo consumes him.

* * *

When Harry lands, he is immediately consumed by a fit of painful coughs. It hasn’t happened to him in a while, since he usually avoids areas with lots of smoke or dust, but in his anxiousness over the Floo, Harry had forgotten that travel by fireplace was likely to involve lots of soot.

Someone pulls him out of the Floo, their hands gentle on his arms. Harry coughs and coughs as the person pats him on the back. His eyes are all watery and it’s hard to see.

“I can get you some water, Harry.” It’s Septimus’ voice, and Harry then realizes that Septimus is also the one holding onto his arm and rubbing at his back. “You alright?”

Harry pulls his glasses off so he can rub at his eyes. “Y-yeah,” he croaks. “It’s just the soot.” Then his glasses are pulled out of his hand, which Harry allows because he’s still a bit disoriented.

The fireplace behind them roars to life. Harry knows it must be Tom, and this is confirmed when Tom’s voice, consumed with worry, says his name. “Harry?”

And then Septimus is moving away, Tom taking his place.

“I’ll get some water,” Septimus repeats. Harry hears his footsteps retreating.

Tom places a careful hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I forgot about the soot, Harry. I should have been thinking ahead.”

“It’s fine,” Harry says, breathing the words out one at a time. “I’m okay, Tom.” Then he feels his glasses being pushed back into his hands. He puts them on, and then Tom’s face comes into focus. The lenses are clean, Harry notes belatedly.

“You sound terrible.”

Harry tries to smile, but he ends up coughing again instead. Tom rubs a slow circle on his back.

Then there is a loud crack as Atticus appears in the living room. “Sorry about that,” Atticus starts. “I ran into somebody—” His eyes fall upon Harry and Tom, his brows rising.

Harry realizes that he’s kneeling awkwardly on the floor with Tom crouched down next to him.

“Asthma?” Atticus asks, sympathetic. He strides over and helps pull Harry to his feet. “If you like, I can cast a spell to help with the breathing. Only if you give me permission, of course.”

Harry nods, not trusting his voice. He’s not sure how to explain that his troubles stem from having nearly burned to death in an orphanage, and so he’s thankful for the excuse.

Atticus retrieves his wand, which is a warm brown colour. He places the tip against Harry’s chest, and then everything glows white for a brief moment as contact is made. Harry feels the tightness inside of him lessen up almost immediately. Taking an experimental inhale through his nose, Harry sucks in some air and lets it out slowly.

“I suppose being raised in a Muggle household means you’ve never gotten a proper check up,” Atticus continues. He makes another motion with his wand, sweeping it across Harry’s chest. “Usually the mild things that get to Muggles fade away as you get older, mostly because your magic makes you more resistant.”

Tom, who has been watching the procedure with interest, looks thoughtful. “Can you give Harry a check up? Fix his lungs up, or whatever the issue is.”

“I can,” Atticus says. “It may take a while, however.”

Septimus comes back into the room, glass of water in hand. “I don’t mind waiting. The girls aren’t even here yet,” he says, holding out the glass to Harry.

“Thanks, Septimus,” Harry says, grateful. There are some ice cubes floating in the glass, making it cool to the touch.

“Drink slowly,” Tom commands. His hand remains touching against Harry’s left shoulder blade.

Harry takes a slow sip, allowing the cool liquid to trickle down his throat. “I’m okay,” he says. They’re supposed to have fun today, and Harry’s just messed it all up. Atticus probably has to deal with enough patients when he’s at work; he doesn’t need Harry to become one of them.

“Maybe during your next visit, then,” Atticus says, after a pause. “I can set aside some time. Septimus will let you know when I’m available, and then we’ll see about getting it done. And we’ll be sure to Apparate next time!”

“That works,” Tom says. Then he nudges Harry, adding, “Finish the water.”

Harry has just lifted his drink up to his lips when the Floo roars to life once again, a vibrant explosion of bright green fire that reveals one of the Greengrass sisters. As Harry’s eyes readjust from the sudden glare, he recognizes the prim and proper form of Adelaide.

“Hello,” Adelaide says, stepping out into the room and brushing the soot from her lavender jumpsuit. She surveys the room before her gaze lands on Tom, whose face is inscrutable.

It is only then that Harry thinks to look at their surroundings. They’re gathered in a cozy yet spacious living room full of warm-toned furniture. Multiple photographs of the various Weasleys are hanging up above the fireplace; Septimus is in quite a few of them, despite being the youngest. Harry watches as all of the photographs move; most of the people in them waving at him. Septimus’ parents look kind, like the sort of strangers who would help you if you asked for directions, or would offer to pay for a cab ride if you lost your wallet.

“Welcome,” Atticus says to Adelaide. With a wave of his wand, all of the soot vanishes off of her. “Why don’t you all have a seat? I can fetch everyone some drinks.”

Looking down at himself, Harry notes that he, too, is clean. Magic is a strange thing.

Septimus has his hands stuffed into his pockets. “We can sit on the sofa,” he says. “Until Annalise gets here.”

The sofa is an enormous, squashy thing with about ten cushions on it, each of them bearing a slightly-different, golden paisley pattern. Tom grasps Harry by the elbow and guides him to sit down.

Adelaide is still standing just in front of the fireplace, her hands clasped together. For a moment Harry thinks she looks upset, but then her expression smooths over as she makes her way over to sit next to Tom.

“What do you all want to drink?” Atticus asks. “We’ve got apple juice, orange juice, or milk. Or water.”

“Apple juice, please,” Adelaide says.

“Just water is fine,” Tom adds on. “Thank you.”

Atticus turns to his brother. “Septimus?”

Septimus shakes his head. “I’m alright, thanks.”

So Atticus leaves the room, meaning the four of them are alone at last.

Harry takes a sip of his water, wondering if he ought to try and make some conversation. The atmosphere of the room is oddly tense; the Floo remains silent. Any moment now, the fireplace will be filled with green fire, but that moment has not yet arrived.

Clearing his throat, Septimus moves to sit next to Harry. The silence goes on for a few more seconds, with no one daring to twitch.

Finally Adelaide speaks, dropping her eyes to her lap. “She’s not coming,” she says. Her fingers flex over her knees, her lips fixed in a deep frown. “It’s just me.”

“What?” Septimus blurts. Then his face pales slightly, as if he’s realized a blunder. “I mean, what happened, Adelaide? Annalise isn’t coming?”

“It mean she’s not coming, Weasley,” Adelaide snaps. Then her shoulders twist so that she’s facing Tom instead. She adds, voice strained, “We won’t see her until the start of term.”

It is then that Atticus bustles back into the living room, a tray of drinks hovering next to him. He seems surprised to see them all looking so downcast. “What’s the matter?” he asks, levitating the tray down onto the coffee table in front of them.

“Annalise can’t come,” Adelaide says. “Something came up.”

“Oh.” Atticus squints at the four of them, and Harry resists the urge to squirm under the scrutiny. “That’s too bad, then. Next time, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” Adelaide echoes, and Harry thinks he can hear the underlying heaviness in her tone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> totally forgot what colour i made septimus' eyes, or if i even did that tbh, so if anyone remembers i would be much obliged if you could let me know, because i don't particularly want to go trawling back through my own canon simply because i have the memory of a goldfish :(
> 
> also feel compelled to reassure everyone that what tom has told harry about his talk with adelaide isn't the full story :) it'll be more dramatic than something as simple as that
> 
> next chapter will continue the visit to the weasley house!


	4. small talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Adelaide get into an argument, which sets off an interesting chain of events.

After Adelaide’s ominous announcement, Septimus spends the next twenty minutes or so trying to distract everyone by showing them around his house. They march around the halls and up the stairs, ending with Septimus’ bedroom. The room isn’t huge by any means, but it’s larger than the room that Harry and Tom share at Wool’s.

“Lots of Quidditch posters,” Adelaide comments as they look around.

Septimus shrugs. “I’m not a huge fan of any particular team. I just really like the sport. But people always seem to get me posters as presents.”

Harry walks over to the window, which is open. He can see the backyard from here: all green grass and distant trees. The breeze that pours through the gap between the window and the frame ruffles his hair. Now that his breathing has calmed, Harry feels less anxious than before, though he’s still worried about Annalise.

As though sensing Harry’s thoughts, Tom moves to shut the bedroom door.

Adelaide directs a wary glance at Tom. Her hair has grown out over the past month. It now hangs part way down her chest.

“Well?” Tom asks.

Septimus winces at the blunt tone, then goes to sit on his bed, patting the space next to him. “Why don’t we all sit down first?”

Adelaide moves to where Septimus has his desk set up against the opposite wall, pulling the chair out and settling into it. Harry retreats from the window and sits down next to Septimus, but Tom remains standing by the door.

Another moment passes. Tom starts to tap his foot upon the floor, but Harry shoots him a glare. Tom’s foot goes still, though his mouth is still twisted with impatience.

“They sent Annalise to stay with our aunt for the summer,” Adelaide says. The sentence rolls off her tongue in an awkward manner. It’s unlike how she usually speaks, which is articulate and composed. “She runs a finishing school for young witches.”

Harry’s heard of finishing schools before. Places for young ladies to learn etiquette and deportment. Ladies of high social standing with grace and poise. He can’t imagine that Annalise is having a good time there, surrounded by rich, stuffy types.

“Annalise is too young for that,” Septimus says, unsure. “We’re all still in school.”

“Not too young to stay there for the summer. To ‘absorb the social culture’.” Adelaide’s frown is bitter. “All of your letters with her this summer have been going through me. She’s not supposed to be allowed to write to anyone else.”

“That’s terrible,” says Harry. “They can’t do that, can they?”

“It’s already happened,” Adelaide says, sounding snappish again. “I tried to convince them to let her out today. I had a plan. And it would have worked, only—” She cuts herself off abruptly, frustration visible in the set of her brow. “Nevermind. It doesn’t change anything, anyway.”

“Is there anything we can do?” asks Septimus. “It doesn’t seem fair she’s spending summer all alone.”

Adelaide shakes her head, adamant. “If there was, I would have done it already.”

“I meant more—is there anything we can do to help cheer her up?” Septimus clarifies.

“You’re her friends, aren’t you?” Adelaide demands. Her arms are crossed again, only it looks more like she’s attempting to hold herself together rather than trying to fend any of them off. “Be her friend. That’s what you can do for her.”

* * *

Atticus makes them all pasta with meat sauce for lunch. They also have some fresh strawberries and a plate of buttered rolls. Though neither Harry nor Tom ask for it, Atticus serves them both extra helpings of food, which Harry is unexpectedly touched by. Perhaps Septimus had mentioned that his friends were not well-off, though Atticus does seem to be under the impression that they’re simply Muggleborns who live together.

The topic of conversation moves around a lot during the course of lunch. After asking about Nathaniel, Harry learns that the Gryffindor Prefect is now dating his counterpart, Genie Jones.

“They keep going to this tea shop in Hogsmeade,” Septimus says, gesturing abstractedly in the air with his fork. “Madam Puddifoot’s. Thing is, I don’t think either of them actually like it there? All Nathaniel does is complain about how pink it is inside.”

“Young love,” says Atticus, wistful. “I remember back in my day, when the shop originally opened. People were queueing up to go in.”

Adelaide sniffs. “It all sounds like a waste of time, if you ask me.”

“That’s what you say _ now_,” Atticus tells them. “Give it a few more years, then you’ll see what all the fuss is about.”

After lunch Nathaniel shows up, having finished his date with Genie. He has a little skip in his step as he walks up to ruffle Septimus’ hair. Septimus rolls his eyes, taking it in stride.

“Heard you lot were going to play a game of Quidditch,” Nathaniel says.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Septimus interjects, ducking out from under his brother’s hand. “I got a new broomstick for my good grades. The Cleansweep Three!”

Harry remembers seeing that model on display in Diagon Alley late last summer. “That’s really great,” Harry says, enthusiastic. “How’s it fly?”

“It’s _ fantastic_,” Septimus says. “Let me go and grab it.”

The rest of them file outside into the sunshine. Nathaniel starts talking about his OWLs, which had apparently arrived some time during the past week. He’d gotten nine total, mostly E for Exceeds Expectations, and he plans to pursue a career in spell creation.

“It’s supposed to be really tricky to invent new spells,” Nathaniel tells them. “But I’ve been taking Arithmancy for a reason, you know! And Ancient Runes. Bloody difficult, they are.”

It is then that Septimus returns with his broom, a second broom, and a Quaffle. Nathaniel takes the Quaffle from him, then offers to referee their match.

Harry recalls that Septimus had told Annalise she could referee. It’s upsetting that she isn’t here.

Adelaide seems to feel the same way. She is frowning, though not directly at Nathaniel.

“You and Evans against Riddle and I,” she says a beat later, the words brisk. Then she reaches into her satchel bag and retrieves two broomsticks. “Could you unshrink these, please?” she asks Nathaniel.

“Sure.” Nathaniel unshrinks the broomsticks and hands them back to her. He’s not of age yet, but this action confirms that children in magical households have more leeway with their magic.

“Here,” Adelaide says. She holds out one of the brooms out to Harry.

“This one’s for you,” Septimus tells Tom, giving the second broom he’s holding a bit of a shake. “It’s Atticus’ broom, but he said you could borrow it for today.”

Nathaniel conjures two large hoops, then suspends one hoop in the air on either end of the backyard. “Two Chasers and two Keepers?” he asks them.

“Sounds good,” Septimus says. “Harry, d’you want to be the Chaser?”

Harry shrugs. “If you want me to.”

Adelaide is already moving towards the hoop, broomstick propped on her shoulder, which leaves Tom to play the other Chaser.

“It’d be more fun with Beaters,” Nathaniel says. “But we don’t have the brooms for it. Plus I’m really bad at Quidditch.” Then Nathaniel casts a Sticking Charm on Harry’s glasses for him, so they don’t fall off during the game.

“It’s alright,” Harry says. “We’ll still have fun.”

Atticus comes out with two chairs floating along next to him. He sets the chairs down upon the lawn and plops down into one of them. 

“Are you sure you’ll be alright to play, Harry?” asks Atticus. “Maybe you lot can just fly some laps instead.”

“No, I’m fine, really,” Harry says. “If I feel bad then I’ll call a timeout, I promise.”

Nathaniel gives the Quaffle in his hands a light toss. “We ready to go, then?”

The four of them who are playing nod in assent, and then the game begins. Harry had forgotten how much he loved flying. Even here in the Weasley’s backyard, with the four of them not more than a few meters off the ground, Harry relishes in the sensation of being momentarily weightless whenever he swoops down.

As the game progresses, Harry realizes that he isn’t used to competing against Tom. Tom appears to be holding back as well, though it’s probably because he’s still concerned about Harry’s cough. The end result is that they are both hesitant to go after each other for the Quaffle, and so the first game nearly ends in a tie. Harry and Septimus win only because Septimus is a better Keeper than Adelaide is.

“Let’s take a ten minute break,” Adelaide calls from across the yard. “We can talk strategy.”

Septimus shrugs and dismounts his broom. “Alright.”

Harry and Septimus take a seat on the ground. “I think we can beat them easily,” Septimus says, tugging at some of the grass by his feet. “Tom’s not as good on a broom as you are, and Adelaide doesn’t think like a Quidditch player ought to. If you can get a bit more aggressive, Harry, then we can win.”

“I’ll try,” Harry promises. It is only a game, he tells himself. And Tom doesn’t mind that Harry is better at Quidditch than he is.

On the other side of the makeshift field, Tom and Adelaide are engaged in a heated argument. Adelaide is making pointed gestures with her left hand while Tom has his arms crossed.

“It’s not going to _ work_, Riddle,” she says, her voice now loud enough to reach Harry’s ears.

Tom glances over at where Harry and Septimus are sitting, then responds to Adelaide. His brow stays lowered. Harry can’t hear exactly what it is that Tom’s saying, but he can tell how Tom is feeling based on his posture and facial expressions. Tom is frustrated and angry, but there’s a bit of resignation mixed in there as well.

“It’s just a game,” Septimus shouts at them. “Don’t get so riled up!”

Tom scowls, stomping back over. “Let’s just play.”

* * *

The second game also ends with Harry and Septimus winning, although this time Harry is the one to carry their team of two to victory by scoring goal after goal. Adelaide congratulates Harry and Septimus on a good game as Harry hands her broom back to her. The afternoon is fading away, and soon Harry and Tom will have to return to Wool’s.

“You’d make a great Chaser as well, Harry,” Atticus says. “Great reflexes and aim.”

“Thanks,” Harry says.

Adelaide and Tom are standing together still, their postures stiff. Then Adelaide nudges Tom with her elbow. Tom glares at her. Their respective expressions of exasperation and annoyance are oddly similar to each other.

“Septimus, can I talk to you for a moment?” Tom asks. “Please?”

“Sure,” says Septimus.

That leaves Harry with Adelaide, Nathaniel, and Atticus. Atticus grabs his broomstick and Septimus’, then wanders back towards the house.

“What’s that about?” Nathaniel asks into the silence.

“A favour,” Adelaide says. “Could you shrink my brooms back down, please?”

Nathaniel does so, and Adelaide tucks them back into her bag. “Thank you for hosting us all today,” she adds. “You’ve been very kind.”

“Not a problem,” Nathaniel says. “You’re all invited over in the future, of course.”

“Thanks,” Harry responds, though his attention is focused across the yard.

Septimus and Tom are still talking. Maybe Tom is asking about the possibility of staying here at the Weasley’s next summer. Though that doesn’t quite line up with his conversation with Adelaide. Harry twists his hands together for a moment, trying to think. He doesn’t like feeling left out, but Adelaide is very smart—Tom might have been asking her for advice or something.

“It will all work out,” Adelaide says, drawing Harry’s attention back to his surroundings. “Don’t worry, Evans. Your friend knows what he’s doing.”

“You lot are so serious,” Nathaniel says. “You’re just kids! You shouldn’t be so worried about everything.”

Adelaide shrugs. The roll of her shoulders is so fluid and effortless that Harry can’t help but think it must be practiced. “You’re only four years older than we are,” she says.

“Yes, four _ whole _years,” says Nathaniel, emphatic. “And I’m a Prefect.”

Septimus and Tom walk back over. Septimus moves like he’s lost in a haze, his gaze a little distant, though his face does clear up as his eyes land on Harry.

“Everything alright?” Nathaniel asks them.

“Yeah,” says Septimus. “It’s all fine.”

Nathaniel seems to take this at face value. “Well, I suppose we should be getting everyone home. Atticus can Apparate you two back to the Leaky,” he adds to Harry and Tom.

“That would be nice, thank you,” Tom says.

“We’ll make plans to meet again before September,” Septimus says. “To get our school things.”

Harry and Adelaide both nod, and then everyone heads back into the house.

“Can we still write to Annalise?” Harry asks Adelaide.

Adelaide’s gaze flickers to Nathaniel, who is walking off somewhere, perhaps to fetch Atticus. “Of course,” she says. “I’ll make sure she gets everything.”

“Good,” says Septimus, who has stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. “She should know we’re here for her.”

* * *

By the time Tom and Harry arrive back at Wool’s, they’ve missed dinner. Mrs. Cole gives them some leftovers, then sends them off to their room. Harry is burning with curiosity over Tom’s odd, secretive conversations, but he forces himself to wait until they’re properly alone.

“Tom?”

Tom is flipping through one of their old textbooks, but he looks up as Harry addresses him. Harry thinks that Tom must have read all their texts at least a dozen times by now.

“Yes?” Tom asks.

“What were you talking about with Adelaide and Septimus today?”

A flash of annoyance spreads across Tom’s face. But the emotion fades quickly, leaving Tom’s usual bored expression in its place. “It’s nothing, really. Adelaide suggested that Septimus try out for the Gryffindor team along with you.”

That takes Harry by surprise. “As Keeper?” Harry asks, confused. 

Tom doesn’t answer right away. He chews on his lower lip, strumming his fingers on the book on his lap. Then he says, “Beater.” His eyes are narrowed, and he doesn’t sound that enthusiastic about it.

“Oh. That’s nice, isn’t it?” Harry hadn’t thought Septimus was interested in playing on the house team. But Septimus does like Quidditch a lot, and he flies really well. He would make a good team player. “So you were trying to convince him?”

“Yes,” Tom says. “He was agreeable enough. Some of his older brothers used to play on their house teams, so he’s bound to have an aptitude for it.”

“Makes sense,” Harry says, deciding to let the conversation die. Instead of sitting, Harry chooses to flop onto his back on his bed. As he stares up at the ceiling, he tries to look at things from Tom’s perspective. Adelaide had said something wasn’t working, and Tom had gotten… well, angry isn’t quite the right word. It doesn't make sense for Tom to get angry at Adelaide for suggesting Septimus play Beater. Harry must still be missing a piece of the puzzle.

“Did you have a nice time today?” Tom asks, after a few minutes have gone by.

“Yeah,” Harry says. He sits up, propping his elbows on his thighs. “It’s too bad Annalise couldn’t come, but it was really great to see everyone else. And Atticus was really nice about the Floo and offering to look me over. And I missed broomstick flying, too. And the Quidditch game was fun.”

“It was a well-played game,” Tom agrees. Then the timbre of his voice changes, turning somber as he continues, “Once we’re all back at Hogwarts, we’ll be able to help Annalise better.”

Harry bobs his head a few times. “I hope so. I still can’t believe that her parents sent her away like that. I hope they won’t be doing it every summer… I can’t imagine how lonely she’s feeling right now.”

What Harry really wishes is that they could do something to help her immediately, but now that Tom is also dedicated to the task, they might be able to do something more about it. Surely with both Adelaide and Tom working on a plan together they can come up with something that will work.

“Both sisters are in a difficult situation,” Tom says. “But I’ll think of something.”

“That’s good,” Harry says. “I’m glad we'll be helping.” Harry lies back down, unable to shake away his morose thoughts. Clearly he and Tom aren’t the only ones who miss being at Hogwarts. Of the five of them, Septimus is the only one who is enjoying his summer holidays.

* * *

Harry wakes from a nightmare that evening, his body trembling. He can’t recall exactly what he’d been dreaming of, but fear still lingers in his mind, a silent monster that never leaves him. Harry typically has the same dream every time, and he always remembers it upon waking, but this time his mind is blank.

“Harry?” It is Tom’s sleep-softened voice that usually soothes Harry’s nerves, but Harry can’t seem to stop his heart from racing.

“Sorry I woke you,” Harry says, swallowing.

“I was already awake.”

Harry looks over to see that Tom is already sitting up. In the dark, Harry can only barely make out his eyes. They look more opaque in the moonlight.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Tom’s voice sounds distant to Harry’s ears, like they’re across the room from each other rather than tucked into the same bed.

“I don’t remember,” Harry says honestly. “It just woke me up.”

Tom doesn’t answer for a long while. If Tom hadn’t been upright, Harry would have assumed that he’d fallen back asleep.

“Alright,” Tom says eventually. “We should go back to bed, then.”

Harry reaches over to touch Tom’s arm, just to make sure Tom is really there. Tom is turned towards the window; the dim lighting casts odd shadows on his face. He looks less like a child, more like something else. Someone else. But when Harry’s hand touches him, Tom turns away from the moon, and the shadows seem suddenly softer.

“Okay,” Harry says, once he’s satisfied that Tom is lying next to him. That he’s not, in fact, still dreaming. “Good night, Tom.”

“Good night, Harry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some stuff and things happening here in this chapter... i wonder what it all means? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	5. planning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group's trip to Diagon Alley leads to some interesting purchases.

_ **August 1939** _

Tom’s started writing letters to Adelaide. The letters are not exchanged as often as the ones Harry writes to Annalise and Septimus, but the fact that Tom is writing to anyone at all is strange. It must be because Tom is planning something with her, so Harry tries to not let it bother him too much. Once Tom does decide on a plan, Harry trusts Tom to tell him about it.

Aside from Tom’s new correspondence, everything has remained much the same. If anything, things are better. Tom is less impulsive and irascible; helping Adelaide with her sister must be diverting some of his restlessness. Adelaide’s also been sending Tom some new books to read. The titles are fancy and the contents are to do with pureblood culture. Tom says the books used to belong to the Greengrass brother.

Harry and Tom also make a second trip to Diagon Alley. Tom sells off all their old textbooks to the secondhand shop, and then he takes them to the Apothecary, where he pours over the prices of the various available ingredients.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” Harry asks him.

“Just checking the selection,” Tom says. “Let’s look at the completed potions.”

They make their way over to the shelves of potion vials. Harry reads the labels, recognizing some of the items from their classes. Tom lingers here and there, his eyes sharp as he notes the prices.

“Cheaper to brew?” Harry asks.

“Yes,” Tom admits. “Didn’t hurt to check, though.”

They end off at Fortescue’s, where they order another sundae. Not as big as the last one, but still a fairly large size for the two of them to finish together. The shop is rather packed inside, so Harry and Tom end up sitting outside in the summer heat.

“Treacle tart flavour,” Tom says, gesturing at a brown scoop. Then he points at the other scoop, which is cream-coloured with swirls of red in it, and adds, “Vanilla and raspberries.”

Harry gives the treacle flavour a try. It tastes unnervingly like the real thing. “I wonder how they make these,” Harry says. “This tastes exactly like a treacle tart.”

“I suppose magic can do almost anything,” Tom says.

They finish their ice cream in short order; Tom lets Harry have a majority of it. While Harry scoops away at the last bit of vanilla, Tom watches the crowds of people mingling about.

“Professor Dumbledore might come by again, before term,” Tom says.

Harry tries to think why this might be, but he comes up with nothing. “Why d’you think so?”

“To drop off the money,” Tom says. “For our school things.”

“Oh, right.” Harry had forgotten that he and Tom were reliant on the school’s generosity for their supplies. “Maybe he’ll send it through the mail,” Harry suggests, hopeful that a visit can be avoided for Tom’s sake.

“Coins are too heavy for that,” Tom says, but he leans forward, looking cheered at the possibility. “But perhaps they can be shrunken down and made lighter.”

“That sounds possible,” Harry agrees. “Maybe he’s too busy to drop by.” In the copies of the Daily Prophet that Septimus and Adelaide have been sending, Professor Dumbledore features every so often. Their esteemed professor has been taking advantage of the summer holidays to further his research projects, and he has received a lot of attention in the papers for them.

Tom pushes his chair back, standing. “We’ll see. Let’s go back to Wool’s.”

* * *

That evening, Tom calls Harry over to their shared desk. Tom has his diary open to a list of points. There are lots of smaller points written underneath each major heading.

“I’ve made a plan for this year,” Tom says. “Things I want to get done.”

Harry skims the list. It seems Tom has taken the liberty of setting a goal for Harry as well. Quidditch is one of the main points, followed by the Quidditch Cup in smaller letters under it, followed by the word ‘training’. This heading is followed by more points regarding their marks and their class rankings, researching powerful magic, and a final part labelled ‘etiquette and culture’.

“What’s this part about?” Harry asks, pointing at the last section.

“Adelaide’s offered to help with lessons on wizarding culture,” Tom says, “in addition to the books she’s been sending. I think you should read them.”

If Tom thinks it’s worth doing, then there must be a reason for it. Harry picks up one of the books resting on the table. The title reads ‘The Intricacies of the Noble House’. Flipping it open, Harry takes a quick look through the pages.

“What are we going to do with all this?”

“If we’re going to deal with these people,” Tom says, “then we need to understand them.”

Harry can’t argue with that, though he does wonder on what ‘deal with’ implies. If it’s to do with the Slytherins, then Harry’s not sure how he feels about it.

“And it will help us help Annalise,” Tom adds. “Because we'll be able to better understand the mindset her parents have.”

This does make more sense, so Harry nods, resolute. “Yeah, you’re right.”

If this will help, then Harry will read through it all without complaint. Maybe he’ll even be able to pick up on a few of the formal manners he’d noticed Tom integrating over the course of their first year at Hogwarts. Tom’s always been good at adapting to new situations easily, so it’ll be no surprise if he excels at this, too.

And if Harry ever does meet the Potters, he’ll want to show them that he’s not just an uneducated child from the lowest ranks of London, and that means putting in some effort.

Tom picks up a few other books and hands them over. “Here,” he says. “I’ve finished with these ones.” 

Harry takes the extra books and deposits them on top of his trunk, keeping the first book with him as he crawls atop his bed, intent on reading.

The start of the book is very dry. There are a lot of paragraphs dedicated to how great blood purity is, how it makes one’s magic stronger. It takes Harry a few tries to even get past the introduction, but he slogs through it anyways. It will all pay off in the end.

* * *

In the second week of August, Harry and Tom recieve a letter from Professor Dumbledore. As Harry had hoped, there will be no visit from their Head of House this year. Instead, there is a document for them to bring to Gringotts in order to retrieve their school funds, and a list of this year’s required supplies.

Adelaide has also set the date for their Diagon Alley visit. Though Harry knows it’s unlikely, he hopes that Annalise will somehow be able to attend. Her letters have grown less cheerful and more sporadic, and despite Adelaide’s insistence that they not worry too much, Harry can’t help but anxiously count down the days until September the first.

Septimus writes about practicing Quidditch with his older brothers. He invites Harry to come along as well, but Harry declines as politely as he can. He still has more reading to do, reading he knows he won’t have as much time for once classes start in September.

By the time their group shopping day arrives, Harry has gotten through most of the books Tom had given him, and all his summer homework is done. Harry is happy with how productive he’s been, even if the books he had read were more depressing than reassuring. He and Tom tuck their black robes into their bags before they head out to Diagon Alley, though given the heat, Harry doesn’t think the robes will be necessary.

The four of them—Septimus, Adelaide, Tom, and Harry—had agreed to meet in front of Gringotts. Adelaide shows up alone, but Septimus shows up with Nathaniel, who tells them to meet at Fortescue’s in a few hours.

Once everyone is gathered together, Tom goes inside to fetch the funds Professor Dumbledore had left for them, leaving Harry to make small talk with their friends.

Adelaide is wearing a set of powder-blue robes, and her hair is tied back with a matching ribbon. She’s poised and flawless as always, her hands clasped over her leather book bag while she talks.

“How is your Quidditch practice going?” Adelaide asks Septimus. “Are you feeling confident about tryouts?”

Septimus blinks and shuffles his feet. His shoes are a little scuffed, but they’re in relatively good condition. He’d also evidently chosen to forgo wizard’s robes in favour of plain tan trousers and a dark grey shirt. “Good, I suppose? Nathaniel’s pretty poor at flying, but he’s alright at chucking things at me. I’ve been getting in extra practice whenever my other brothers are around, and sometimes my dad helps charm the practice bludger to fly at me.”

“That’s very good to hear,” Adelaide says, then turns her gaze to Harry. “And you? How are things with Riddle?”

“We’re doing well,” Harry says. “We’ve been reading the books you sent us. Thank you for those, by the way.”

Adelaide waves it off. “It’s no trouble. You _ should _ be educated on these things, and there’s no one else to teach you. Sebastian won’t even notice they’ve gone missing.”

Septimus looks between them both, then says, “What sorts of books?”

“Wizarding culture, Weasley,” Adelaide says. “As Muggleborns, they’ll need to know these things if they want to interact with higher society. I’m also going to hold some lessons for them, just to get them up to snuff.”

“Higher society,” Septimus says, snorting. “Sure.” He glances over at Harry before he adds on, “But I guess it can’t hurt.” He pauses again, then says, directly to Adelaide, “Is there room for one more? My parents don’t really put emphasis on these sorts of things. Because I’m the youngest, I won’t ever be holding the family seat or anything, so no one bothers to tell me stuff.”

“If you want to come,” says Adelaide, “I don’t mind.”

Tom emerges from the bank and walks over to them. “Let’s go,” he says, once he’s close enough to be heard properly. “Flourish and Blotts first, then the Quidditch shop.”

No one questions this, and so they all make their way to the bookstore. Once inside, Adelaide and Tom approach the sales clerk to buy their assigned sets of textbooks.

“I’ve already got most of mine for this year,” Septimus tells Harry. “There’s a few I need new, but I think my parents already OWL-ordered them when they were buying some books they wanted for themselves.”

“Makes sense,” Harry says. 

They stand there for another minute, and then Septimus speaks again. “Are you excited for Quidditch?”

“I’m still a bit worried about tryouts,” Harry says. “But I can’t wait to be able to fly around the pitch again.”

“You’re going to be great, though,” Septimus says, enthusiastic. “Really, Harry. I know you’re likely sick to death of hearing it, but we’re all on your side.”

Harry feels his face grow hot. “Thanks, Septimus. I’m glad we’ll be trying out together.”

Septimus smiles. “Yeah, it’ll be good fun. I’m kind of glad I let Tom talk me into doing it. Even if I don’t get onto the team, it’ll be nice for us to do something together.”

Adelaide comes back over, two packages of books in hand. “Hold this, please,” she says to Septimus, who accepts the pile she drops into his hands. Adelaide brings her book bag around to her front, opening it up. “It all needs to go in.”

Septimus dumps the packages inside, where they get swallowed up by the bag’s magic. “I need one of those,” Septimus says. “Nifty for carrying everything at once.”

“It’s a special charm,” Adelaide says, closing her bag back up. “It’s too complex for us to cast, but perhaps one of your brothers could do it for you.”

Tom walks up to them, stack of books in hand. “Everyone finished?” Tom asks.

Septimus and Harry both nod. “To the Quidditch shop?” asks Septimus, hands sliding into his pockets.

“Then the Apothecary,” Adelaide adds, sounding reluctant. “Since we’ll be needing new ingredients this year.”

They exit the shop and make their way over to Quality Quidditch Supplies. There is no new broomstick launch this season, but the shop is still fairly busy. Tom leads them to where the kits are; he picks up two Broomstick Servicing Kits and a Quidditch Starter Kit, all of which he hands off to Adelaide. The kits are large and colourful, and the tags on the shelf announce to everyone that the prices are not insubstantial by any means.

“Are you buying all these?” Septimus asks her, confused.

“Gloves next,” Tom says, already walking away from the shelf.

“Yes, we are,” Adelaide answers. “For you and Evans both.”

“Wait,” Harry says, jerking away from the shelf to stare at her in horror. “You can’t do that, Adelaide! You’ve already gotten me a broom and everything—”

“Don’t worry, Harry,” Tom interrupts, popping up out of nowhere. He dumps a pair of gloves on top of the Quidditch kits. “Everything has already been agreed upon.”

Septimus frowns, but he doesn’t protest. “I can pay for my own gloves,” he says to Adelaide. “And I could pay for one of the kits, too. An early birthday present for Harry.”

“_Septimus,_” Harry says, elbowing him.

“You’re ridiculous, Evans,” Adelaide says, huffing. “How else do you expect to succeed? Do you think the Slytherins are going to sit back and do nothing?”

“I don’t need these things,” Harry says weakly. “I’ll do just fine without them.”

“The broomstick kits are a must,” Tom says. “They’ll be needed for the broomsticks regardless. And the starter kit will make it easier for you both to practice outside of scheduled team sessions. We can’t continue to borrow the equipment from other students; it’s better if you have your own.”

“I’m going to pay for these,” Adelaide says. “We can meet outside.”

“I’ll wait with you,” Septimus says, taking one of the kits from her. “So I can help you carry them afterwards.”

So Harry and Tom wait outside the shop. It’s nearly lunch hour now, meaning the alley isn’t as busy. Most people have likely gone to restaurants to eat.

“I don’t like that Adelaide’s paying for everything,” Harry says. “I know you said it’s fine, and she said it’s fine, but it doesn’t feel right, Tom.”

Tom sighs. “Harry, listen to me. You have to take every advantage when you can. Adelaide isn’t doing this out of charity. There are things that she can do for us, like buy supplies, that we wouldn’t be able to do on our own. She does want to help, and we’ll be helping her with things in return. Does this make you feel better?”

Harry can’t really imagine what he’ll be able to do for Adelaide and Annalise. Sure, he’s been reading the books Adelaide has sent, but Tom is the smart one between the two of them, and so Tom will be the one who is paying back Adelaide with whatever plan he comes up with. But he knows that Tom does believe in him, and Tom had let him help with the study guide, so he has to believe that Tom will let him help with this, too.

“If you’re sure I can help,” Harry says. “Then I guess it’s okay.”

“You will,” Tom promises. “And part of this will be accomplished by playing Quidditch and making a name for yourself. That’s how you gain influence, by making people pay attention to the things you excel at. Then they can see how much better you are than them.”

Harry knows better than to express his self-doubt, because he knows Tom won’t like it. So he nods in response, and this answer satisfies Tom, who pats him on the arm.

What Tom thinks of as an alliance, Harry thinks of as friendship, and so it sits poorly with him to be indebted to the Greengrass sisters, especially when Annalise is having such a bad time with her aunt.

Adelaide and Septimus emerge from the shop. Septimus has a brown paper bag in hand, presumably the Quidditch kit and the gloves he’d paid for.

“There goes my extra pocket money,” Septimus says cheerfully. Then, when Harry winces, he adds, rushed, “It’s really nothing, Harry.”

Harry gives up. All of his friends are too nice to him, buying him things he doesn’t really need, and there’s no way of convincing them to stop, especially when Tom is just encouraging it. Harry resolves that he’ll have to find a way to repay them all as soon as he can, hoping that it will be enough.

* * *

At the Apothecary, there are lots of tubs and jars for various items, so it takes a while for them to gather everything they need. Tom seems to be consulting a separate list as well, a list other than the one they’d received with their letter from Professor Dumbledore.

“I’ll pay for it,” Adelaide says, eyeing the second pile of things Tom has counted and measured out. “But I’m not brewing it, Riddle, and that’s my final answer.”

Harry scoops some beetle eyes into a pouch, watching for Tom’s response. Tom doesn’t look pleased, but Adelaide’s refusal doesn’t appear to surprise him, either. Was this what they had been arguing about at Septimus’ house?

“Fine,” Tom snaps, and then he turns to Septimus. “You’ll help, won’t you?”

“Um, sure.” Septimus nods a few times in quick succession. “What do you need me to do?”

“I have the ingredients here for a Sleeping Draught,” Tom says. “But I need someone to brew it before school starts. You live in a magical household, and your potions marks are decent enough you should be able to handle it.”

“Yeah, as long as it’s not too complex a potion, then I can do it. But why can’t it wait for when we go back to Hogwarts?” Septimus asks.

“Our cauldrons are stored in the classroom,” Tom reminds him. “We can’t access them without signing them out.”

Septimus hesitates, then says, “Right. So you just want this done before then?”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Tom says.

Harry portions out a dozen newt tails, and then hands them over to Tom, who drops them into one of the paper bags provided by the shop. Harry wants to ask what the draught is for, but, truth be told, he’s a bit embarrassed he doesn’t already know, what with Tom acting like he’d been planning this for a while.

“Is there anything else?” Septimus asks. His tone is more casual than Harry would have expected given the illegality of the task he’s agreed to undertake.

“We’ll have to stop by the joke shop for a dungbomb.”

“You? Need a dungbomb?” Septimus blurts out. “What do you need one of those for?”

“For an experiment,” Tom says vaguely. “I’m not about to set one off in the common room, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Septimus says, shaking his head. “I just wasn’t expecting it, is all.”

“Are we done yet?” Adelaide interjects, annoyed. “I’ve finished with my things.” Indeed, her hands are full with various bags of ingredients, all neatly labelled.

“Sure,” says Septimus. “Let’s go.”

The four of them head to the counter to pay. Adelaide purchases her two sets of ingredients plus the additional things Tom had picked up. Septimus goes next, leaving Harry and Tom as last in line.

Once he and Tom are done, Harry tucks their purchases into his rucksack, lingering behind while Septimus and Adelaide exit the shop. Before Tom can pull too far away from the counter, Harry touches his elbow, stopping them both in place.

“What have you been planning?” Harry asks.

Tom frowns, but the frown disappears after a second. “If I told you to leave it alone, would you?”

“No, I wouldn’t.” Harry sighs. “Tom, I don’t like it when you don’t tell me things.” Tom likes his space, he likes to plot and plan, but usually he includes Harry in the process. Being left out feels... bad. Harry doesn’t want Tom to keep him in the dark, even if it’s only because Tom thinks it’s something he doesn’t need to know.

“If it’s important, then I do tell you,” Tom says, defensive.

“This seems pretty important,” Harry retorts. “So I think I should know.”

Tom glances over at the glass windows that face the alley. Adelaide and Septimus are waiting for them on the other side. “We can talk about this later,” he says at last. “Not right now.”

Harry nods acceptance, knowing that this is the best answer he’s likely to get. “Later, then,” he agrees. “I won’t forget.”

“Fine,” Tom says, resigned, and this leads Harry to suspect that whatever this is about, he won’t like it very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl i'm kind of dead tired as i post this, oops.
> 
> mostly a transitional chapter here, hopefully the character interactions make it interesting enough to bypass the whole 'boring introductory diagon alley trip' schtick.
> 
> next chapter will continue diagon alley and move onto some other stuff (probably).
> 
> as usual, thanks for reading :)


	6. negotiation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trip to Diagon Alley ends with Adelaide exposing some new information. Once back at Wool's, Tom and Harry have a difficult conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tom is a jerk for some of this chapter, but don't worry, he'll learn his lesson eventually...

When their shopping is at last done, the four of them head to Fortescue’s to meet Nathaniel at the appointed hour.

“I ordered for everyone already,” Nathaniel says upon seeing them. “My treat. We can go for some proper lunch at the Leaky afterwards, but don’t tell mum and dad I fed you all dessert first.”

They find a table inside and gather around while Nathaniel—boisterous and cheerful, bouncing on his feet—hovers at the counter and waits for his order to come up.

“Was Atticus busy?” Tom asks Septimus. “Or is it just you and Nathaniel today?”

Septimus shakes his head. “Atticus has different hours all the time at St. Mungo’s, and they change a lot, too. It’s hard to catch him unless he books off time in advance. I’m hoping he’ll be able to nab a day before the start of term though, for the check up.”

Harry had forgotten about the check up. “It’s fine,” Harry says. “I can wait if he’s busy.”

“Well, if he can’t get away before then, we can do it during the winter holidays,” Septimus says. “I don’t think my parents would mind if you both came home with me this year.”

“That would be excellent,” Tom says. “I’d like to meet your parents.”

“Yeah,” says Septimus, excited. “You should come over, really. It’s not like we don’t have the space.”

“If you’re sure it won’t be a bother,” Harry says. “It is the holidays and everything.”

“Course it won’t,” Septimus says. “Usually my brothers who work abroad come home for Christmas, but it’s only for a few days, and dad pitches our tent in the backyard for them to stay in. Worst case, you can just all bunk in my room. I’ll even take the floor if it means you can stay.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Harry says quickly. “Sleep on the floor, I mean. I’d be just fine with some blankets, and I’m sure Tom would, too.”

“We’d be guests,” Tom says, nodding. “Not inconveniences.”

Nathaniel walks back over, gigantic ice cream bowl in hand. “There’s a bit of everything,” he says. “So I have spoons for everyone. You don’t mind sharing, do you? I felt it was better than trying to divide it all up.”

“It’s perfect, thank you,” Adelaide says, taking one of the proffered spoons and daintily scooping some of the pink ice cream up.

Once the ice cream has been demolished to about half its previous size, Nathaniel asks, “Have you all finished your shopping?”

“I still have to visit the Menagerie,” says Adelaide. “To buy some owl things.”

“We can do that,” Nathaniel says. “Anywhere else?”

“I need a new nib for my quill,” Septimus adds. “My old one’s gone wonky, and the ones mum uses don’t fit my quill.”

“We’ll split up, then,” Tom says. “I’ll go with Septimus, and the rest of you can escort Adelaide to the Menagerie. We can meet back at the Leaky Cauldron for a late lunch.”

Harry keeps his expression neutral as they finish their dessert, pack their things up, and leave the shop. Tom had promised they would talk later.

* * *

At the Magical Menagerie, Nathaniel wanders off to look at the fire crabs, leaving Harry to purchase owl treats with Adelaide.

“He split us up on purpose,” Adelaide says, and Harry doesn’t need elaboration to know she’s talking about Tom.

“I know that,” Harry says, irritated.

“How much has he told you, then?” Adelaide sounds more curious than aggressive or mocking, and this is what forces Harry to relax his shoulders a bit.

Still, he hesitates before he answers. “Not much.”

“He should know better than that,” Adelaide says, matter-of-fact.

Harry gazes over at the selection of owls, most of which are fluttering their wings or strutting about in the available space as they wait to be chosen and taken to new homes.

“Is there something else that I’m missing here?” Harry asks, when he decides he can’t take the silence any longer.

Adelaide stays quiet, lips pursed, thinking. Then she says, “Riddle originally wanted to play on the Gryffindor team with you. As a Beater. To protect _ you_. I had to talk him out of it, and that is why Septimus is trying out instead.”

This derails Harry. Of all the things he had expected her to say, this had not been anywhere near the list.

At first, he’s angry. Tom is everywhere, all the time, and while there is comfort in that, it is also stifling. Harry had crept on eggshells all summer, mindful of Tom’s temper—temper directed at others, but temper nonetheless. And now this, this single thing that Tom had given him, had told him to reach for, had told him that he could have on his own, is still being meddled with, because Tom can’t leave well enough alone.

But the anger melts into confusion shortly after. Tom doesn’t care for Quidditch in the slightest, and he doesn’t excel on a broomstick, either. If Tom had planned to make the team, he must have tried to practice before Adelaide talked him out of it.

“Riddle was practicing,” Adelaide says, reading the expression on Harry’s face. “Starting after spring break last year. I let him borrow my broom for a while. But it wouldn’t have worked out, and I told him so. Weasley’s family has boys who’ve played on teams at Hogwarts before, so he’s the closest to a natural talent besides you, and therefore he’s the most logical choice.”

Harry takes a deep breath, releases a lungful of air in a slow exhale. He has to remember that Tom had done this to protect him. Though misguided and overbearing, the intention had not been harmful. 

“You’ve a right to be cross with him,” Adelaide says. “Because he kept this from you. But he was only doing what he thought was best.”

“I know,” Harry tells her. He is cross, even though he also understands.

Adelaide’s eyes—a dark, cool brown, like Tom’s but also different—narrow at him. “You’re something else, aren’t you? You’re not about to let Riddle walk all over you, I can tell. But you’re still going to forgive him far sooner than he deserves. If it were me he’d done that to, I would want to teach him a lesson.”

* * *

Harry and Tom’s walk back to Wool’s is not what Harry would call ‘tense’. It’s not at all like the last time they’d fought, which had also been August, albeit last year. This time, it’s Tom who’s been keeping secrets.

And so they go through the motions at Wool’s: unpacking their new things, joining the other orphans for dinner, dragging out the evening until it is time to return to their room. Tom must know that Harry is a bit upset with him, but Harry knows that the Quidditch issue is really just the tip of the iceberg.

Once in their room, Tom seats himself on his bed, legs crossed, shoes off, and gestures for Harry to sit across from him.

Harry sits on his own bed, feet firm on the floor.

“Adelaide told me about Quidditch,” Harry says. “That you wanted to play, but she convinced you to ask Septimus to do it instead.”

Tom’s face is perfectly impassive, and the seconds stretch on. Then he says, “I’m sorry I kept that from you.”

“And what else?” Harry asks.

“Else?” Tom’s head tilts, a curl falling across his forehead. 

“What else have you been planning?”

Tom glowers for a moment, redirecting his gaze to the wall. “You know that I trust you,” Tom says. “So can you trust me with this?”

“That’s not fair.” Harry shakes his head, weary. “It’s not the same thing, Tom. You’re only doing this, keeping this from me, because you know I won’t like it.”

Tom looks back over, jaw scrunching up as he grimaces. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“The truth?”

“You—” Tom sounds frustrated. “You don’t understand, Harry. You’re too _ nice. _ I’m only trying to protect you—I know you don’t want me to, but it’s necessary.”

“I don’t need protecting all the time,” Harry says, swallowing down his irritation. “I just want to know what’s going on. Is that really too much to ask for?”

Tom stands and starts to pace back and forth across the room. Even though Tom has no shoes on, the forceful thump of his feet on the floor is audible. “It’s not,” Tom says at last. “But that doesn’t mean I want to tell you.”

“But why not?” Harry asks, voice rising. “What’s so important that you’re keeping it from me? Is it about Annalise?”

“No, it’s not about Annalise.”

“Then what is it?” Harry says, his annoyance at last overriding his self control.

“It’s because I can’t trust you to tell me when things are bad!” Tom says, whirling around, and he sounds about as frustrated as Harry feels.

The outburst smarts. Tom had _ just asked _ for Harry’s trust, had said that he gave it in return. And now, this—the truth. Harry steps back despite himself, shock replacing his anger.

“I told you I would look out for us,” Tom continues, crowding closer, incensed. “And that means I will be taking things into my own hands, Harry.” But then he relents, his shoulders drawing back, his brow stretching out, the creases vanishing. “I trust you with everything else, I do. But when it comes to safety, you have to believe that I know what I’m doing.”

“I said I didn’t want anyone to do anything about the Slytherins.”

“Harry—”

“Why can’t you leave it alone, Tom?” Harry says, loud enough to be considered a shout.

Tom actually flinches, then goes still, and all Harry feels is regret, regret, regret. He hadn’t mean to yell, to be mean. And Tom is—Tom is his best friend in the world.

“Very well,” Tom says, quiet. “Is that what you want? For me to leave it alone?”

Harry sucks in a breath to avoid speaking and tries to order his thoughts. “No,” he says. Then, more confused, “I don’t know.”

“If you want me to leave it alone, then I will.” Tom sounds as contrite as Harry has ever heard him, his eyes widening just so with unfiltered honesty.

“I—” Harry falters. “I know you only want to help, Tom. I’m sorry I yelled.”

“That’s alright,” Tom says. “I understand you were upset with me.”

Harry feels worse upon hearing that, though he’s not sure why. It’s like he’s disappointed Tom, somehow. Like they’ve disappointed each other, only Harry had been the one to push things too far by yelling, and now his chest hurts, too, and it’s hard to unstick the painful lump that’s lodged in his throat.

“I don’t mind if you do things,” Harry says slowly, pausing between the sentences, “if you talk to me about them first. That’s what trust is supposed to mean.”

Tom’s face changes again, only this time it’s an expression of worry that flickers across his features. “You should sit down,” Tom says. “You’re breathing funny again. I shouldn’t have gotten you mad—”

“I’m fine,” Harry says, but he allows Tom to steer him back onto his bed.

Tom’s hands remain firm on his shoulders as he gazes down, his dark eyes serious and endless in their concern. “How about this? You let me plan things the way I want to, and before I actually do anything, I’ll tell you what the plan is.”

It’s almost too easy to agree to that, Harry thinks. “You promise you won’t leave me out?”

“I promise.”

“Okay,” Harry says. “Does that mean you’ll tell me what the potion was all about?”

“The potion?”

Harry frowns. “The Sleeping Draught.”

Tom sighs and sits down, the bed creaking underneath the additional weight. “Well,” Tom says. “I had been thinking it might be good to help you with your nightmares.”

“Oh.” Harry hadn’t thought of that, admittedly. “How does it work?”

“It puts the person who drinks it to sleep, but only temporarily. The length of time depends on the strength of the dosage.” Tom reaches over and pats the top of Harry’s hand with his own.

That all makes sense, but it doesn’t tie into the rest of what Harry has been worrying about. “And the Slytherins?”

Tom pauses, then repeats, “I’ll tell you once I’m done planning.”

“Tom—” Harry begins, flustered.

“I promised, didn’t I? I said I would tell you. But not before everything’s been settled on.”

“I’d rather you did nothing,” Harry says.

“I know you would.” Tom presses his lips together, then adds, “You know, you’re very smart, Harry. I know I tell you this, but you really should start to believe it.”

“Tom, you’re getting away from the point,” Harry says.

“I mean it, though,” Tom insists. “You are. If you weren’t, we wouldn’t have been having this conversation to begin with.”

“I’m smart because I can see through all the excuses you try to give me?” Harry asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Well, yes,” Tom admits. His legs swing out, then thump back against the mattress. “But that’s fine, because I wouldn’t accept that from anyone other than you.”

Anyone other than him. Harry bites down on his lower lip, staring down at his shoes.

“You’re important,” Tom says gently. “Important to me. That’s why I want to make sure those Slytherins don’t bother you anymore.”

“I can handle myself.”

Tom’s hand slides up the back of his head, and Harry can feel the individual fingers against his scalp. “I know,” Tom says, his hand stroking down, petting. “But I want to do it anyways. Will you let me?”

Harry closes his eyes. His throat still feels a bit funny, like it usually does before he comes down with a cold. “I don’t want any trouble,” Harry says. “No trouble, Tom. Promise.”

“No trouble,” Tom agrees. “Just a warning, to put them in their place.”

Swallowing hard does nothing to dislodge the soreness in his throat, so Harry nods and places his hand on top of Tom’s knee, steadying himself.

“Okay,” Harry says, glancing over, meeting Tom’s solemn gaze with his own. “I trust you.”

“Good.” Tom’s hand drops to his forearm, enveloping Harry in a one-armed squeeze, halfway to a proper hug, and Harry leans into it, his head nudging against Tom’s, and they sit there until the lump in Harry’s throat goes away.

* * *

_ **September 1st, 1939** _

The station had been crowded when Tom and Harry arrived.

Harry isn’t quite sure if it’s because they’d arrived later than usual, or because there are simply more children attending Hogwarts this year. People had kept stopping them to talk, to ask them how their summer had been—to which Tom had always responded with good cheer, because there were parents here, too, grown adults with more influence than their children possessed, which meant that there was only more socializing to be done.

With adults, Tom is different. More eager and less composed, but only in such a way that endears him to the eyes and hearts of mothers and fathers waiting to see their children off for the school year. And Harry, of course, is only ever tangentially involved in the conversation. He is used to shrinking down, to smiling shyly, to letting Tom do most of the talking.

But by the time they spot Septimus and Nathaniel, Harry is thoroughly sick of acting the part of the poor, beleaguered orphan, and he is glad for some company that does not involve pretending to be less than he is.

There is a much older woman with the Weasley boys, old enough to be a grandmother, but she’s likely the Weasley mother. Septimus has only older brothers in his household, and Atticus is already in his twenties.

“Harry! Tom!” Septimus beams and waves them over. “Mum, these are my friends—”

“Mrs. Weasley,” Tom says, a charming smile spread across his lips, and Harry decides to head things off before they have a chance to get too far, lest he once again be given the role of ‘quiet and unassuming sick child’.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Weasley,” says Harry, sticking out his hand. “I’m Harry Evans.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Harry,” she says, her grasp on Harry’s hand firm. Her blue eyes are very kind, with soft lines around the edges, and her light grey robes are neatly pressed and patterned with faint white daisies. “And you—?”

“Tom Riddle, ma’am.” Tom’s got a little dimple on the side of his cheek, a result of his lopsided smile.

“I’m glad to meet you, Tom. Septimus talks about you all non-stop—”

“Mum!”

“—and you are both welcome to join us for the holidays this year.”

“Only if it’s no trouble,” Tom says, employing the same tones of careful politeness Harry has grown used to Tom utilizing around their professors at Hogwarts.

“Nonsense. We would love to have you visit us.” Mrs. Weasley pats Septimus’ shoulder, and then mother and son exchange a smile. “And if you need us to escort you home at the end of term, we’d love to do that as well.”

“You’re very nice,” says Tom. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Weasley reaches across to pat Tom’s shoulder as well, just a light touch, and then her arm jerks as the train whistles. “You boys better get on,” she chides. “And I will see you in December.”

Nathaniel plants a kiss on his mother’s cheek. “Bye, mum.”

“Love you,” Septimus says, squeezing his mother quickly around the waist.

Harry waves goodbye and follows his friends onto the train. “Have you seen the girls yet?” he asks Septimus.

Septimus shakes his head. “No. It’s a pretty crowded platform this year, though. They might just be running late or something. There’s still some time yet.”

Tom glances through one of the compartments as they walk by. “We should walk the length of the train, just in case they’re already here. If we see an empty compartment, one of us can save it, and we’ll go back if we do find them later on.”

So they continue on, peering through here and there for two familiar heads of dark brown hair. Harry starts to worry again, so he stuffs his hands into his pockets to avoid twisting them together. They run into more of their classmates, and Tom makes excuses, declining invitations to join existing compartments of students. Soon enough, the train begins to move under their feet, a motion that causes Septimus to frown and glance over at Harry. Harry frowns right back, trying not to let the unease overtake him.

“Have you seen the twins?” Septimus asks every time they stop, and he gets negative answers again and again, all the way until they’ve reached the last section of train.

“They’re at the end,” says Chang, slowly, reluctantly. From behind her, Francesca and Leo crane their heads and wave solemnly in greeting. “Adelaide pulled the curtains shut. I think they might be waiting for you.”

“Thanks,” says Septimus, already jerking back from the doorway and turning around.

“Thanks,” Harry adds, just as quick, before he goes to follow.

Tom lengthens his strides, pulling ahead of both Harry and Septimus, and knocks sharply on the compartment door, which has its curtains shut. “Greengrass? It’s us.”

“Come in.” The voice is muffled, but Harry thinks it must be Adelaide speaking, because the directive is perfunctory.

There’s a bit of commotion on the other side of the barrier as Annalise protests, but Tom is already shoving the door aside and stepping through the threshold.

As the inside of the compartment comes into view, Harry sees that the sisters are wearing identical dresses, but are seated on opposite sides. Annalise is staring at the curtain-covered window, frowning, the skin around her eyes pink and vaguely puffy, though her cheeks are dry.

“Hey,” says Septimus. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Annalise says, her gaze shifting over. She blinks a few times, her jaw firming despite the wobble in her lower lip.

Adelaide scoffs, clasping her hands together in her lap. “Sit down, Weasley.” Her entire body is rigid, wound tight, as though one wrong comment will send her spiraling into unrestrained aggression.

They sit, and no one speaks, not even Septimus, who almost always has something to say to break a tense atmosphere.

Annalise wipes at her face with a handkerchief while everyone pretends not to notice the dampness staining the cloth. “I’m fine,” she repeats.

“Of course you are,” Tom says. “You’re fine. It doesn’t matter whatever it is that they tell you, Annalise. I’m telling you that you’re just fine—in fact, you’re doing better than they think you are, because there are things you know that they don’t, things only you know about yourself, and those things are much, much more important than the things they tell you.”

“Oh.” Annalise mouth drops open, a tiny o-shape, her misery melting into surprise. “That’s—that’s—” She fumbles for the words, sniffling a bit, then finishes, “Thank you, Tom. That’s really kind.”

“It’s more than kindness. I believe it, and I want you to believe it for yourself. Remember that next time someone tries to tell you that you’re worth less than you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing this chapter was hard because the balance between tom and harry is such a thin line to tread when they're disagreeing with each other. hopefully it came across not too unbalanced, though tom does have the advantage of being more manipulative.
> 
> anyways, i do wonder what you all think of what was revealed...
> 
> fun fact! in the early, early, early plot draft of this series, i thought about actually having tom play quidditch (mostly because i find it amusing), but it doesn't really fit with the rest of the story, so you all get septimus instead... which will have its own impact on the plot to come :)
> 
> anyways i have a cold rn and i'm feeling bleh. thanks to hannah for looking over this chapter for me, if there are other mistakes it's my bad, oops.
> 
> drew a picture of adelaide from this chapter [HERE](https://duplicitywrites.tumblr.com/post/190688067779/)!


	7. return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom’s plans for the school year continue to move forward during the train ride. Once they arrive, they encounter the strange creatures known as thestrals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of soft moments in this chapter (｡♥‿♥｡) dunno if i like this overall but eh :/

Once the train is a good distance away from the station, Tom tugs the curtains open to let the sunlight in. It takes a moment for their eyes to adjust, and by then any remaining tension has vanished from the compartment.

Annalise is certainly in a better mood. Her handkerchief has been tucked away, and she is making an effort to smile.

Now that the atmosphere has cleared, Septimus starts a new conversation about their summer homework. Harry and Adelaide join in, and so Tom lets them keep the chatter going, choosing instead to withdraw a textbook from his bag.

He’s been reading at a more sedate pace this year. Since a great deal of the information gets repeated during classroom sessions, reading ahead too far in some of their classes doesn’t save him much effort. It’s better to pick and choose what to read, what to memorize. History of Magic, for example. A useless class. Tom plans to fill those hours with his assigned readings to save time, though he doubts Binns would notice if he went missing.

When the sweets trolley at last makes an appearance, it is Adelaide who fishes for her coin purse. She counts out enough for five Chocolate Frogs and two packs of Droobles, then hands one of the packs to her sister. The rest of the chocolate she splits amongst the group.

Tom sets aside his book and accepts the offered treat with a smile even though he’s not craving any sugar. He watches as Harry unwraps his own chocolate, the motions slow and hesitant. He’ll have to do something about that soon. It won’t be good for Harry to feel overly indebted to the Greengrass girls. Harry’s attention ought to be focused on Quidditch, not on worrying over unimportant details.

Harry glances over just then, like he can pick up on the fact that Tom is thinking of him. “Aren’t you going to open yours?” Harry asks, his manner almost shy.

“Of course.” Tom smiles again. He puts more warmth into it this time, because it’s Harry he’s looking at, and then he tears the package open, pinching the frog between his thumb and forefinger so it won’t escape. He snaps off one of the legs; the frog goes still.

“Tom and Harry are going to spend the holidays with me this year,” Septimus says into the lull. “It’s going to be fun.”

“That’s nice,” Annalise says after swallowing down her own mouthful of chocolate. “A proper Christmas, then?”

Harry shifts a bit. He’s fiddling with his empty chocolate wrapper.

Tom only shrugs. Though the workers at Wool’s do their best, really it’s pitiful compared to the splendour that Hogwarts offers. Winter holidays at the Weasley home will be just as good, if not better, because they’ll get to experience the occasion from a full wizarding perspective.

Septimus nods. “Yeah. My dad said maybe he’d ask his cousin for an extra tent, and then just the three of us could bunk in the backyard!”

“We don’t have a tent,” Annalise says. “But our house is very big. I wish we could have you all over sometime.”

Adelaide reaches out to pat her sister’s knee. “In the future, perhaps.”

Tom snaps off one of the remaining legs of his frog and hands it wordlessly over to Harry, who takes it without comment. Harry likes sweets more, and Tom typically doesn’t care one way or the other. Chocolate is nice, a pleasant indulgence, but it’s a small trifle on the scale of things Tom wants for himself.

While Harry nibbles on the chocolate, Tom decides to change the subject. “Did you manage to brew the potion?” he asks Septimus.

“Yeah, I did. I have it stowed in my trunk. But Tom, did you mean for it to be such a large batch? I had to borrow my mum’s cauldron, and then I had to portion it all out into about a dozen vials.”

“Hmm.” Tom hadn’t thought about the storage. “Do you need more vials for your classes?”

“Not right away, I guess.” Septimus frowns a bit. “But if you’re not going to use these up any time soon, I’ll probably need a few new ones. So the batch is meant to be that big?”

“It is,” Tom confirms. “I want to test a few things out, so I need more than one sample.”

“Well, you’ve certainly got enough now.” Septimus half-snorts, shaking his head. “I was worried for a while that someone might have caught me brewing it. Then I would have had to explain myself, and I wouldn’t even have a real answer for them.”

“I can loan you some of my vials,” Adelaide says. “Just until Riddle’s done with whatever he’s doing.”

“Me too,” Annalise adds quickly. “If you need them. It’s probably easier for you to give them back to me than to Adelaide.”

“That’s right,” Adelaide says. “Good thinking.”

Annalise smiles brighter, pleased. Then she asks, “What are you going to do with all of that potion, Tom?”

Tom keeps his demeanour bland. “I wanted to experiment with the effects. I’ll be practicing on some Transfigured rats to start with.”

“Original research at our age,” Annalise says, impressed. “That’s very impressive. Did you have anything particular in mind?”

Tom shrugs. “Not yet. I suppose I’ll make a decision once we’ve gotten a proper start into the school year.”

Harry nudges Tom’s foot with his own, questioning. Tom nudges right back, then hands over the rest of his chocolate.

“Bribery,” Harry mumbles in a pitch just loud enough to reach Tom’s ears, and Tom grins.

* * *

When they arrive at Hogsmeade, Tom learns that they won’t be taking the boats up to Hogwarts.

“There are carriages,” Septimus says. “They’ll take us up to the castle.”

Adelaide pulls her heavy winter cloak tighter around her shoulders and gazes up at the sky. “I hope that means we’ll be warmer this time.”

Annalise has pulled gloves on. She is standing next to Adelaide, the two of them huddled so close together that their cloaks seem like one large swath of continuous fabric. “I think they must be, if they’re magical carriages.”

Tom rubs his hands together as they follow the crowd of students walking over to the slew of black, glossy carriages. There are headlamps hanging on the fronts of each carriage that illuminate the sloping path ahead.

But the horses in front of the carriages look as though they’ve been pulled from a horror show.

Skeletal face and large, leather-like wings that stretch as tall as the height of the horse itself. Larger than average horses by a noticeable amount, and no meat on the bones, either. Only black, reptilian skin that clings to the ribs, spine, and limbs like an ill-fitting blanket. The eyes are both blank and expressionless, which sends an unwilling shiver down Tom’s spine.

Tom glances around. No one else is reacting, so maybe the horses—or whatever they are—are normal?

Then a girl shrieks, high and terrified. A few people in the crowd swear in response, but the curse words are swallowed up by the mutterings of the crowd. Professor Yeung appears, moving swiftly through the sea of students and murmuring words of comfort to a younger girl tucked under her arm.

“It’s just the Thestrals!” calls an older student. “Nothing to be afraid of. They won’t hurt you!”

“Thestrals?” asks Harry.

“I think they’re like horses,” says Septimus. “They pull the carriages. But not everyone can see them? I’m not sure exactly why.”

“Well, I don’t want to see them,” Annalise says as she eyes the spot in front of the nearest carriage, where two of the Thestrals are standing. But her gaze passes right over them, focusing instead on the carriage lamps. “People say they look horrid.”

One of the Thestrals snorts loudly, its breath steaming in the cold air, and Tom shifts on the spot, unnerved. He doesn’t like the feeling he gets when he looks at it. So he shoves it down, buries it away. It’s just a strange, magical horse. The fact that he can see it isn’t a big deal, it just means he’ll have to find out why.

It takes a while for the throng in front of them to clear, but eventually their group clambers onto a free carriage. Tom guides Harry to one side and Septimus follows, leaving the girls to sit opposite.

“No roof up!” Annalise says, twisting her body around towards the back of the carriage. “I wonder if we can put it up ourselves.”

Professor Yeung wanders over, having likely heard Annalise’s outburst. “Would you prefer the hood, Miss Greengrass?”

“Yes, please,” says Adelaide.

With a wave of her wand, Professor Yeung raises the hood of the carriage. The material stretches out over them, closing them in. “Would you like a Warming Charm as well?”

Both of the girls nod. “Sure,” Septimus says. “Thank you, professor.”

Once they are all suitably comfortable, Professor Yeung sets their carriage rolling off towards Hogwarts. Harry is facing the scenery, watching the formless shapes of their surroundings blur past as they continue on in the dark.

“So do we have a new plan for this year?” Annalise asks. “For studying? Or will we be doing the same thing again?”

“Much of the same,” Tom says. “Though I want to prioritize certain classes more than others. Charms, for example. Much more useful than, say, Astronomy.”

Adelaide makes a low sound of amusement. “Don’t let Professor Mauboisan hear that. She takes her subject very seriously.”

“It’s about as useful as Divination sounds,” Tom replies, unbothered. “People get too caught up in what _ could _ be. They forget that, in order to accomplish their goals, they have to put real work in.”

“Speaking of Divination, have you all thought about which electives we should take next year?” Septimus asks. “It’s kind of odd to think it’s going to impact our future so much. Nathaniel says he regrets not taking Care of Magical Creatures, because it would have been an easy ‘O’ for his OWLs.”

“Arithmancy and Ancient Runes,” Tom says promptly. “And perhaps Muggle Studies, for an easy class.”

“I’d like to take Muggle Studies,” says Annalise. “But I’m not sure if our parents would let me.”

“You’re twins,” Septimus points out. “If the schedule works out, maybe you could just switch places.”

“That ploy only works in stories, Weasley,” says Adelaide. “Besides, I doubt I’d be allowed to take such a class either.”

“We could teach you both about Muggle things,” Harry says. “If you can’t take the class. Since you’re already going to be helping us with Wizarding things, Adelaide.”

“That may work,” Adelaide allows. “I do know the Malfoys have their hands in some Muggle businesses, though they may try to keep it under wraps. Our mother gossips about it. If we can prove it’s useful and give reason, I could convince her to let us take the class next year.”

“Great,” Harry says, cheered. “We could all take it together—you as well, Septimus?”

Septimus shrugs. “I don’t see why not. It would be really nice for us all to have a class together.”

“Then it’s settled,” Tom says. “We’ll do double lessons together. Wizarding and Muggle cultures.”

“It’s going to be hard to find the time,” Septimus says. “I feel like there’s always something that needs doing. Not that I mind or anything, but with Harry and I playing Quidditch and Adelaide in Ravenclaw, our schedules won’t match up as well.”

“We’ll have to wait and see once classes begin,” Adelaide tells him. “But surely you won’t be busy all weekend?”

“Miss Laine seems perfectly reasonable,” Tom says. “I’m sure she won’t be overworking you.”

“She’s such an excellent player,” Annalise says. “I wish I was as skilled as she is on a broomstick. She’s thinking of going professional after Hogwarts—she said she wants to start a team of only female players someday. Could you imagine that?”

“I bet she could,” Septimus agrees. “Everyone at Hogwarts likes her, and her family is fairly prestigious.”

The carriage hits a bump, jolting the five of them. “Hope we’re close,” Annalise says. “I prefer the boats to this. When we’re in the boat we can see where we’re going.”

“We should be arriving soon,” Tom says, shifting around Harry to peer outside. It’s mostly tall, spindly trees framing the carriage path. “How many new students are there this year?”

“A lot, judging by the platform,” Septimus says. “But I think next year’s will be even larger. I know a few families have children that will be Hogwarts age.”

“The Blacks,” Adelaide agrees. “And the Boots. Those are ones I remember.”

“More Blacks?” asks Tom.

“Their family tree is very large,” Adelaide says. “Most of the couples have multiple children, and they’re married into multiple Pureblood houses.”

“Strange to think of having so many relatives,” Harry says. “I wonder what they do for the holidays.”

Adelaide shrugs. “Private events. Select people are invited over. Our mother receives invitations, though our father doesn’t like attending them. He’s not the social kind.”

“Sounds boring,” Septimus says. “Like a Slug Club party. No offense,” he adds, “because you lot do go to those. But the Christmas one last year was pretty stuffy.”

“No offense taken,” Harry says. “They can be, sometimes.”

The carriage pulls to a stop. Annalise leans out of the carriage, craning her neck. “We’re here,” she reports. “Thank goodness. I couldn’t have handled going over another bump.”

Everyone is ushered into the castle and down towards the Great Hall. Most of the students are equal parts sleepy and hungry, and therefore there is little chatter as they find their way to their house table.

In accordance with last year’s House Cup results, the table order has changed. Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, Slytherin, and then Hufflepuff. Though Tom had been disappointed that their house had failed to win last year, he does have the consolation with the fact that they are now able to sit closer to Adelaide without Slytherin house dividing them.

“Hope the Sorting isn’t too long,” Septimus says. “Lots of students, but maybe less hatstalls?”

They seat themselves. Harry and Tom on one side and Septimus and Annalise on the other. At the Ravenclaw table, Adelaide is next to Nott, though she is close enough that Tom can lean over and get her attention if he wants to.

Once the hall has settled, Headmaster Dippet stands and introduces this year’s group of first-year students. A couple dozen children are herded into the room by Professor Dumbledore, and then the student body as a whole is serenaded by the Sorting Hat.

Tom tunes out the process, choosing instead to glance over at the Slytherin table. The cluster of green-adorned students with their proud postures and attentive gazes are mostly fixated on the fuss at the front of the hall, but Tom manages to make eye-contact with one of them. Lestrange, with the long facial features and the dark mop of hair.

Suppressing a scowl, Tom contorts his mouth into a smirk. Not a wide one or a taunting one; just a small, secretive curl of the corner of his lips. A warning, as he had told Harry. Nothing is forgotten, nothing is forgiven, and soon those boys will have an idea of what befalls those who threaten what belongs to him.

* * *

“Leo, how was your summer?” Septimus asks as they trudge up to their dorm. They’re on a new level this year, the second highest one, but everyone dumps their belongings onto the beds in the same spots as before.

“It was good, thanks. And yours?”

“Busy,” says Septimus. “Summer homework, Quidditch practice.”

“Oh?” Macmillan interjects. “Are you trying out, Septimus?”

“Yeah. Harry and I are trying out together.” Septimus shoots Harry an easy grin. “He’s going for Seeker, and I’ll be going for Beater.”

“Bit skinny for a Beater,” says Macmillan, squinting. “But good luck.”

“Septimus has very good aim,” Tom says idly. “And a strong arm. I wouldn’t underestimate him, if I were you.”

“You’ll both do well,” Leo says neutrally. “And we will all go to tryouts to cheer you on, right Eldon?”

“Sure, sure.” Macmillan waves it off. “Gryffindor pride, of course! It would be nice if we could win the Cup this year.”

Shortly after this, everyone settles in for bed. Harry hovers by the window that looks out over the grounds, and so Tom goes to stand next to him. It’s very dark out now, meaning not much can be seen below, but the twinkling stars are visible in the sky above them.

“It’s nice to be back,” Harry says. “I missed this place.”

Tom sets a hand onto Harry’s shoulder, feeling the warmth of Harry’s body through the cotton pyjamas. “It is,” he agrees. “I missed Hogwarts as well.”

The familiarity of magic in the walls, the acknowledgement of their peers, the knowledge at his fingertips. Here at Hogwarts, his potential is limitless. Here at Hogwarts, he is truly home.

“It will be a good year, won’t it?” Harry asks, turning to Tom for reassurance. Reassurance that Tom is always willing to provide if it keeps those bright eyes looking in his direction.

“Of course,” Tom says, squeezing his fingers down, pressing the tips of them gently into Harry’s collarbone. “Better than the last, Harry.”

Harry smiles, soft and pleased, and Tom thinks of all the lengths he will go to for Harry, to keep that smile in place. “Guess we should go to sleep,” Harry says.

Tomorrow is Saturday, meaning they have the weekend to sleep as much as they want. Tom wants to stretch this moment out a little longer. “We could stay here, if we’re quiet.” It’s too early in the year to hang around in the common room; someone will likely catch them if they linger there.

Harry turns his gaze over his shoulder. Their roommates have all pulled their bed hangings shut for the night. “Okay,” Harry says, barely above a whisper. He pulls out from under Tom’s hand and climbs onto the low windowsill, which is just wide enough for a small child—or two small children, in this case—to sit upon.

Tom does a quick turnabout, snatching his cloak from where he’d draped it over his trunk. Then he joins Harry, seating himself so that they face each other, legs laced together. He tosses the cloak over them like a blanket. The room is warm, comfortably so, but the windowsill is cool, sanded stone beneath his bare feet.

The sit for a while, the hum of Hogwarts magic surrounding them, the view of the grounds—lit only by moonlight, now—a pleasant backdrop to the quiet evening.

“I never want to leave.”

Tom understands the sentiment well. He doesn’t want to leave Hogwarts, doesn’t ever want to go back to Wool’s. A fierceness burns in his chest, in his lungs, born not only from his own longing, but from a wish to provide Harry with what he most desires as well.

Someday, Tom will have enough influence within these walls to make it happen. Then they will not have to leave Hogwarts unless they want to. They won’t have to leave until they graduate and claim a new place for themselves.

“Someday,” Tom says aloud, his ghostly breath fogging the glass. “And someday we will have a place like Hogwarts for our own.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we are back at hogwarts!! time for another year of dramatics and intrigue.
> 
> side note: tom sees the thestrals because of the rabbit he killed at wool's, thus fulfilling the requirements of having 'witnessed a death and accepted its reality'.


	8. family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> September is a month of adjustment and transition. Tom finds himself busy with planning and working around the various interactions of his peers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chang is based off of my sister, who is great fun and told me that her character is not accurate enough, to which i responded that if i had chang act exactly like her, not only would it be furthering the surrealism of the time period i don't really adhere to, but also no one would pay attention to anything else because she's so distracting lmfao. so she's there mostly for my own amusement and minor comic relief, in case anyone was wondering!
> 
> samantha, if you ever finally get around to reading this, this is a shout out :)

On Saturday morning, everyone receives their schedules along with breakfast in the Great Hall. Tom scans the list. Still no classes with Ravenclaw. Potions with the Slytherins, and Herbology with the Hufflepuffs like usual. Harry’s eyes linger on the spaces where their Potions classes are outlined on his sheet of parchment, a tiny crease marring his forehead alongside the ever-present scar.

Tom rolls up his own schedule and stuffs it into his bag. He will keep Harry safe and free of trouble. He will keep his promises of providing a better school year and a bright future. He will continue to pave his way to power. Reassured by his mental mantra, Tom breathes out his stress, turning his focus to the ongoing conversation.

“Where’s Leo?” Septimus asks. “He said he’d be right down with us.”

“He got a letter from his mum,” Harry says. “Maybe he needed to answer right away.”

Macmillan looks over at the large doors at the back of the hall. “All the best food will be gone if he doesn’t hurry up. So many firsties this year.”

“More marking for the professors,” Annalise adds with a frown.

“So they’ll be more irate than they already are during exams,” Chang interjects with a scoff. “Wonderful.”

“Speaking of exams,” Macmillan says. “Your brothers got their OWLs this summer, didn’t they? Septimus? Annalise? How’d they fare?”

“Nathaniel got what he wanted,” Septimus says vaguely. “He’s pursuing spell creation once he graduates at the end of next year.”

“Hard to break into that,” Macmillan says. He spears a sausage onto his plate before he adds, “And you, Annalise?”

“Sebastian did very well,” Annalise says. “Our parents were very proud of him.”

Chang leans in. “Is he following the family business? Your father exports healing potions, doesn’t he?”

“It’s all they talk about,” Annalise says, voice light. Her smile appears strained, though it’s likely no one else outside their friend group will have noticed.

“Lucrative,” Chang says, nodding. “Maybe I’ll go into healing!”

“It’s not an easy path,” Septimus tells her. “My brother had to do years of training at St. Mungo’s before he was qualified to treat even minor cuts and bruises. Too much risk with mistakes.”

“I could do it,” Chang retorts. Then she gazes around the table, mouth slanted in challenge. “Anyone here think I couldn’t?”

“You’ll do anything if someone tells you not to or that you can’t,” Macmillan says. “Why don’t you find a better hobby?”

“I’d be better at any hobby you tried,” Chang says. “What _ do _ you do, anyways? Play Gobstones?”

Now that the topic has dissolved into childish squabbling, Tom tunes it out, instead choosing to fill his plate with seconds. Leo shows up a few minutes later, quiet as usual, and the group welcomes him back without much fanfare.

“What’d your mum want?” Septimus asks. “Took you a while to come down.”

“Nothing too important,” Leo says. “I just had to write her back so she wouldn’t worry.”

“Mothers are like that,” Septimus says sagely, and then the conversation turns to talk of Quidditch.

Annalise leans over towards Harry, whispering something in his ear, then stands up, excusing herself from the table. She does glance at the Ravenclaw table, where her sister is seated, but she leaves the Great Hall alone.

* * *

The first week back is uneventful save for the announcement that Muggle Britain has gone to war.

Tom mulls the subject over whenever he has a spare moment for idle thoughts. War and all that comes with it; not to mention the single word that says it all: _ Muggle. _

Muggle Britain, a place that is separate from its wizarding counterpart.

For here at Hogwarts, surrounded by the sturdy castle walls, it is hard to imagine a thing like war. Even in the history books that Binns drones on about, there is little to no mention of Muggle squabbles. No one speaks of rations and gunfire when they walk down Diagon Alley. Most of the children in the school are from magical homes—they know nothing of the history that colours Muggle books with red.

Still, there are other things to look forward to. Quidditch tryouts are fast approaching. Harry and Septimus practice constantly, leaving the rest of them to study indoors where it’s warm. The empty chairs seem to have offered a silent invitation, because Tom finds that others come to join them without asking.

“Do you think Gryffindor will win the House Cup this year?” Francesca asks. “With Septimus and Harry on the Quidditch team.”

“Of course,” Annalise says, homework forgotten underneath her elbows as she leans in. “They’re both going to be excellent. Harry’s got the best reflexes in our entire year, and he’s going to do better than all the other Seekers. And Septimus has really fantastic aim and lots of natural talent.”

“It’s good they know they work well together already,” Francesca adds. “Septimus can protect Harry from the Bludgers.”

Septimus is a good friend to them, and Tom doesn’t doubt that Septimus will do his best to shield Harry from harm. Septimus’ loyalty to Harry is likely stronger than his loyalty to Tom, but Tom knows that it doesn’t matter as long as their desires align. Tom will keep the situation under his control, and Harry will be safe.

* * *

Saturday morning finds their core group holed up in an isolated section of the library. The weather outside is nice, meaning most of the students are outside enjoying the freedom that the light course load of the first week allows.

Adelaide has no books and no parchments on the table in preparation for their first lesson together, but she does have her hands folded together in her lap, prim and proper.

“Today’s lesson will be on the importance of appearances,” she says. “First impressions, how to introduce yourself, and how to conduct yourself in an unfamiliar environment.”

What follows is an expository lesson that is likely more helpful for Septimus and Harry than it is for Tom. Tom does make note on the way to address lords and ladies of noble houses, on the details and implications that Adelaide drops here and there while she speaks.

“Where did you learn all this from?” Septimus asks. “From your parents?”

The two girls exchange a look. “We had a tutor,” Adelaide says. “Sebastian had them as well, growing up.”

“Well, I think we’re finished here,” Tom says into the lull. “Let’s head to lunch, and we can cover more material afterwards.”

“Septimus and I might head out to practice,” Harry says. “Since the weather is nice.”

Tom squashes the irritation inside of him as soon as it rears its ugly head. Harry needs to practice; it can’t be helped that Tom isn’t as involved in it as he’d like to be. “That’s fine,” Tom says. “Then the rest of us can work on other things.”

Annalise seems about to say something, only Adelaide shifts, nudging her, and Annalise stays quiet.

“Okay,” Harry says. He’s frowning, and Tom knows that Harry probably feels guilty about all the time they’ve spent apart lately.

“Tryouts are next week,” Tom says. “Make sure you’re in top form.”

It is then that Sebastian Greengrass swings around a neighbouring bookshelf and approaches the table, coming to a stop just behind his sisters, looming over Adelaide’s shoulder. “Still hanging around Gryffindors, Addy?”

Adelaide stiffens, but she doesn’t turn around. “It’s our study group, Sebastian. Go away.”

“Hard workers,” Sebastian says. He has both hands braced on the back of Adelaide and Annalise’s chairs. “Hope to see some better results this term, hmm? Something pleasant to report back to our parents.”

“I think you ought to worry about yourself,” Adelaide says. “We don’t need any help.”

“How about you, ‘Lise? Need help with Transfiguration?”

“No,” says Annalise. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Sebastian smacks the back of her chair a few times, his smile full of false cheer. “Memorize that Transfiguration alphabet?”

“Yes,” Annalise says, tense.

Sebastian leaves, and then they all pack their bags in silence before departing for lunch.

* * *

“Sebastian is nothing but trouble,” Adelaide confides.

Annalise had gone back to her dorm, claiming a headache, leaving Tom and Adelaide to study alone together in the library after lunch. Tom is reading a brochure he’d picked up at Zonko’s during their Hogsmeade trip, scanning the product claims.

“I can imagine.”

“He’s been studying the Dark Arts,” Adelaide says in a low voice. “Our mother doesn’t approve, but our father does, so there’s little to be done for it. Only Sebastian, well, he doesn’t have a lot of _ restraint. _ His ego spans the size of Europe.”

Tom sets the brochure flat down on the table. “What sorts of problems do you expect him to be causing?”

“It’s only a matter of time before he gets in over his head,” Adelaide says. “All aspirations and no common sense, yet father’s _ still _ grooming him to take over the family business.”

Tom considers this. “If he does cause trouble, we’ll handle it.”

Adelaide’s lip curls. “Like how you plan to handle those boys?”

“Exactly like that,” Tom said flatly. “Teach people that they can’t get away with stepping on you, and they’ll think twice before they do it again.”

Tom will ensure everyone knows that neither he nor Harry is to be messed with; especially Harry, who has put up with enough bullying in the past and doesn’t require any reminders of it. Tom would like to see Dumbledore, high and mighty, stooping to solve the petty squabbles of school children.

“If you say so,” Adelaide says. “I told you, if you’re going to do anything you best be sure you’re getting away with it. This sort doesn't take well to threats.”

“I assume you’re speaking from experience?”

“Something like that.” Adelaide stares down at her Herbology notes, then says, “In a household like ours, you learn the value of silence in all the worst ways.” Then she coughs and goes back to writing.

Tom watches her for a while as she scratches down more notes. It’s only just occurred to him that she never talks about having other friends.

Lack of companionship had never been something that bothered Tom before he’d met Harry, but he can see that—because Adelaide is always separated from her sister—it must be difficult for her, though she tries hard not to show it. The two sisters had spent the entire summer apart already; maybe she worries over them drifting apart.

Tom can’t imagine spending more than a day without Harry. He feels restless when Harry is gone for too long, like his magic is prickling all over his skin. It aligns with what he tells Harry all the time: they’re safer when they’re together, they’re better off together.

Harry is a cornerstone upon which Tom bases a majority of his decisions, and Tom will keep things this way no matter the cost.

* * *

The next time their group gathers in the unused classroom on the fifth floor, they spend the first twenty minutes pushing a number of desks together and blocking out a makeshift pen using their textbooks.

“Did Professor Dumbledore ask why you wanted the mice?” Annalise asks as they watch the mice scurry around.

“No,” says Adelaide. “I just told him it was for practice for snuff boxes. I may have implied that I intended to engage in review with my fellow students, which isn’t quite an outright lie.”

“Here we are,” Septimus says cheerfully, “reviewing.”

Tom unstoppers a vial of the Sleeping Draught that Septimus had prepared and portions it out onto some pieces of bread and cheese they’d saved from dinner. The bread pieces get three drops, and the cheese pieces get two.

“Separate the mice,” Tom tells Harry.

Harry slides some more books into place, chasing the mice along until they’ve been separated into two equal groupings.

“So what are we testing?” Annalise asks. She has a pocket watch in her hand

“The effects of less-than-full doses.” Tom portions out the food samples and hands the bread to Adelaide. “Septimus, are you ready?”

“Yeah.” Septimus is watching the left half of the separated mice, and Harry is watching the right half.

“Alright,” says Tom. “Let’s do this.”

* * *

Tom visits the library on the evening before Quidditch tryouts to research Thestrals.

It’s close to curfew, but Madam Fieldwake likes him, and so she directs him to a few choice books before sending him on his way with a hall pass, just in case he gets caught by a Prefect or a professor. Tom’s not too worried; his armful of library books gives him plenty of reason to be out a few minutes past curfew, and everyone knows Tom Riddle is a studious high-achiever.

Harry is still awake when Tom arrives back at the dorm to change into his pyjamas. Harry is curled up on his own bed with one of Septimus’ many books on Quidditch splayed out on his lap. Harry’s is the only bed with the hangings pull open; he was likely waiting for Tom.

“Tom,” Harry greets in a whisper, setting his book aside.

Tom nods and dumps most of his own books onto the side table before climbing onto the bed next to Harry without preamble. “I found out what determines if people can see Thestrals or not.”

“Oh?” Harry accepts the book that Tom deposits onto his lap and waits while Tom flips to the correct page.

“Only visible to those who have witnessed a death and accepted its reality,” Tom reads softly.

Tom holds the book open while Harry digests that particular piece of information. He can hear the thoughts turning around in Harry’s head, wondering, wondering—

“You can see them,” Harry says.

Tom pauses, then says, “Yes,” though he’s unsure where his hesitation came from.

An unspoken ‘why’ lingers in the cool air between them, but Harry doesn’t press the matter, which Tom finds himself unexpectedly thankful for.

“I wonder,” Harry says, after a moment has passed, “why can’t I see them?” Harry gazes at the photo in the book—the skeletal horse is all stretched out, like its bones are too big for its skin—and rubs the back of his neck. 

“Why would you?” Tom asks without thinking.

Harry doesn’t look up for a while. “You know,” Harry says, and his breath comes out in a hitched series of stutters. “You know—” He cuts off abruptly, sliding the book away.

Oh. Tom _ does _ know. “That wasn’t really,” Tom says, pushing his own concerns away for the time being, choosing instead to focus on the question he can answer, the problem at hand that he can solve. “It wasn’t the same thing. You never saw it.” He closes the book and puts it onto the table.

“I guess.”

Tom doesn’t associate Harry with death, with dark things. He often forgets that Harry has a past separate from his own, that there are events that happened before Harry walked into his life and changed it.

“It’s not,” Tom says, confident. “You didn’t see it happen, so it isn’t the same. That’s why you can’t see them.”

“But _ you _ can see them—” Harry says, then stops again, mouth shut, shaking his head. “I just wish I could forget,” he adds. “Because I _ can _ remember it, only it’s not—like you said—it’s not even—”

Tom wraps an arm around Harry’s shoulders, squeezes tight. “I’m sure there’s an explanation for it. I just need to figure out what it is.”

They sit like that, close together, and then Tom adds, “You need to sleep. You shouldn’t have waited up for me. Tryouts are tomorrow, and you need to be well rested.”

“I’ll be fine,” Harry says. “Tryouts aren’t until afternoon.”

Tom narrows his eyes, and Harry shifts under the weight of the judgement. So Tom retracts his arm, even though he wouldn’t have minded leaving it there, and shuffles off the bed.

“Sleep,” Tom repeats. “And I’ll see you in the morning.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Harry says, snorting. “You don’t set bedtime, Tom. You’re not my parent.”

“What I _ can _ do is go to sleep myself,” Tom says. “And then you’ll have to go to sleep, because there’ll be nothing else for you to do. I might not be your parent, Harry, but I’m still going to make sure you get enough rest. You did the same thing for me last year, remember?”

Harry frowns at that, consternation flickering across his face as he tucks his legs underneath him. “That’s different.”

“How is it different?” Tom demands. “It’s exactly the same thing.” Not strictly true, because all those other times Tom had usually just pretended to go to bed, but as far as Harry knew, it _ was _ exactly the same thing.

“You’re an idiot who doesn’t sleep, that’s why. I can stay up just this once.”

Tom tries to gauge the severity of Harry’s stubbornness, then decides it’s not worth fighting against. If he leaves, Harry will go to bed. There’s no point in prolonging the argument, as much as Tom hates to turn away, he knows Harry well enough to know what’ll happen if he continues to push the point—they’ll just keep on talking, back and forth, and Harry will get his wish to stay up.

“Good night, then,” Tom says, shrugging his shoulders, drawing Harry’s bed curtains shut, enjoying Harry’s minor noise of protest as Tom steps away and towards his own bed.

Tom climbs underneath his bed covers and lies very still, listening. After a few seconds, he hears the sound of Harry’s blankets rustling. He doesn’t doubt that Harry is grumbling and cursing his name, but none of that will change the fact that Tom did win the argument, however posthumously.

The movements slow and stop, and then the sounds segue into the soft, slow breaths that signal Harry’s sleep.

Now alone, Tom thinks about Quidditch, about bullies, about death. His mind refuses to quiet itself, spinning around from topic to topic, chasing imaginary scenarios. Harry on a broomstick, the darling of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, scouted for professional play, maybe. And Harry would be thrilled, happy to be acknowledged and praised for his skills. Tom could imagine it; Harry’s smiling face, saying—

_ “We’ll still be friends, Tom, of course! And you can come to watch all my games, and, oh, you know, Septimus got scouted as well, and we’re going to play together—” _

Waving that scene away, Tom rolls over in bed, disgruntled. Harry won’t ever leave, he tells himself. Tom is the one who’s helped him, convinced him to give Quidditch a proper try, and Harry is loyal to Tom above all others. And even so—

_ “I took care of them, Harry. They won’t be bothering you again.” _

_ Harry looks over at the pyre, the billowing streams of dark smoke, the pile of bodies_—Tom’s always wondered what those would look like, bodies, but his imagination supplies well enough for this—_and he frowns, arms wrapping around himself. _

_ “What have you done, Tom?” asks Harry. _

_ “I’m keeping you safe.” _

_ Harry’s face twists, darkening, scowling as he looks up at Tom, ready to deliver a scathing response about how wrong this all is— _

Well. Harry might not like the path to the results, or even the results themselves, but he’ll come to understand it eventually. Tom rubs at his chest to ease the tightness there. Harry understands, doesn’t he? Tom is an unstoppable force, a lance of power that is capable of anything, in control of his own destiny, a product of the magic that runs in his veins.

Tom has a plan for his life, desires and ambitions, and Harry is included in all this, Harry is the closest thing Tom has to family, and he won’t let them be separated—

Tom has a mother who died for him, a father who never came for him, and Harry has parents who died, leaving him at an orphanage.

So Harry has no need to run off and become the beloved heir of the Potter house, where they won’t appreciate him for who he is. They won’t know how to soothe Harry’s nightmares, how to support his dreams the way that Tom does.

Tom will pave the way for the things Harry wants, all the things Harry wants, because this is what they do for each other. This is the understanding they have reached, and this is what will hold long after all other relationships have fallen away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no see!
> 
> i had a really rough time trying to decide what this chapter would include... i wanted to move the pace along a bit faster, but there were also a number of things i wanted to set up for the future. so i struggled with picking and choosing scenes to write, mostly. hopefully this chapter reads well.
> 
> thanks for reading, i would appreciate any thoughts you may choose to leave :)


	9. dishonesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom's plans at last come to fruition.

_ **September - October 1939** _

Prefect Laine is standing just outside their classroom; History of Magic is the last class of the day for the Gryffindor second years.

“Can I have a word, Riddle?” she asks, tone bored, eyes alert. A strange clash of attentiveness and disinterest. Louisa is already in her Quidditch gear, broomstick in hand. Dedication to the image, Tom thinks to himself. The model Quidditch Captain.

Tom resists the urge to look over his shoulder at Harry. Quidditch tryouts aren’t for another hour. Perhaps this request is entirely unrelated to Quidditch? Though Tom can’t imagine what else she'd come to him for.

“Of course,” Tom says to her. Then, to the rest who are behind him, he adds, “I’ll see you back in the common room.”

A pause, and then the group behind him shuffles away. “See you,” says Septimus.

Harry is more hesitant to go, but Tom waves him on. Harry tugs his bag closer and nods stiffly. It’s the nerves, likely. But Tom won’t be long. He’ll be back at the common room to talk Harry up very soon.

Tom turns back to Louisa. “Should we walk somewhere private?”

“If you like.”

They continue down the hall, away from the direction of the Gryffindor Common Room.

Louisa directs them into an empty room, not even an empty classroom, as there are no desks and no chairs. Tom eyes the empty bookcases built along the far wall, under the windows. There is also a large cupboard in the back corner, collecting dust. Had all these rooms once been filled with students? Why else was this castle so big, if not to put the space to use?

“I know what you’re doing,” says Louisa.

Tom doesn’t let his mask slip. “Oh?” he asks. “What might that be, Prefect Laine?”

“You’ve convinced the Weasley youngest to play for Beater.”

Something in his face must give him away, because Louisa nods to herself. Tom scowls. “I don’t see why that matters, unless you plan on exercising favouritism.” Which he knew she didn’t, because she frequently complained about such things in the common room.

“It matters,” she says, “because I know why you did it, Riddle. Your motivations aren’t exactly subtle.”

Tom holds still. “And you’ve come to tell me so?”

“I’ve come to say that I’m sure Weasley’s a decent player and all, but he’s not top-notch, and if you want him on the team for the reasons I suspect you do, then that won’t satisfy you.”

The lines are clear. Tom knows now why they’re having this conversation. “What do you want?”

Louisa’s grin sharpens. “I know you, Riddle. You’re like me, so I’ll get to my point. There are two positions for Beater this year. I’m filling one of them with that fourth-year named Benjamin, and I can be _persuaded_ to fill the other with Septimus.”

“You’ve just said that you don’t think he’s the best for the position,” Tom says. “And I know you don’t support favouritism.”

“I don’t. I do think that Weasley will make a good addition. From what I’ve seen, he’s a good team member to have. And the fact he works well with Potter is a bonus. People underestimate the power of cohesive teamwork; I don’t make that mistake. But if I take him, I’d have to train him up.”

“So what do you want from me?” Tom snaps. “Either you want Septimus on your team or you don’t.”

Louisa sighs. “I’m not here to aggravate you. I’m offering you a favour, and in return I’ll expect something in the future. You’ve got your little group of followers—I know you’re not collecting people for fun.”

Is she comparing him to Professor Slughorn? Tom feels distaste simmer in his gut at the implication. He is nothing like their Potions professor. Tom would never waste his influence on trivial matters like free Quidditch tickets and crystalized pineapple.

“Don’t you have your own group to worry about?” Tom asks. He’s seen her surrounded by upper years in the common room. “Being Prefect and Quidditch Captain attracts a lot of notice.”

She shrugs. “I won’t be here forever, and if I’m Head Girl next year, I’ll have enough to worry about. I’m setting roots down for the future—I know you’ll manage the new lot that comes in.”

It is rather ridiculous that someone can wield that much power at once—Quidditch Captain and Head Girl both. But perhaps there is no one else fit for the task. Tom can concede that Prefect Laine does a fair job given her responsibilities. No doubt she would be an equally just and responsible Head Girl.

“Favours within reason,” Tom decides. “I want the right to refuse.”

“Fair enough,” she says. “And if Weasley doesn’t work out, then I won’t be keeping him. He’ll go to reserves.”

“Fair enough,” Tom echoes, sealing the fate of the Gryffindor Quidditch team once and for all.

* * *

When Harry and Septimus both make the team, all of the second-year Gryffindors celebrate by organizing a tournament-style game of Exploding Snap. Leo sweeps the entire thing, winning all three rounds, and Annalise declares the evening a success for everyone.

It’s not until much later in the evening that Tom gets a moment alone with Harry.

“I talked to Septimus,” Harry says. “He says that even if you hadn’t asked him, he would have wanted to try out.”

“Is that so?” Either Septimus is telling the truth, or he’s lying to help support Tom’s cause. Tom wonders which one is the case. Septimus does like Quidditch, and he is an avid fan of the sport, but he had never struck Tom as the type to want to play.

“Yes,” Harry says. He crosses his arms, uncrosses them. “I’m not sure if I believe him.”

“Septimus is a good friend. I don’t think he’d want to lie to you.”

Harry gazes at Tom, discerning. “I guess,” Harry allows. “I am happy we’re both on the team. Septimus was a little worried he wouldn’t get in—”

Tom continues to listen and respond, but most of his mind is already elsewhere.

Septimus would never lie to Harry unless there was a very good reason to, because Septimus adheres to the morals of the classic Gryffindor student. So Septimus would never go to the same lengths for Harry as Tom, because he is restrained by those very ideas of right and wrong that Gryffindors are supposedly known for.

There is no such thing as _ right _ or _ wrong. _ There is the wide area in which Tom operates, not quite one way or the other, always in his own best interests.

Learn magic, make connections. Impress the professors and win favour. Anything to achieve those goals, to put himself above the rest, and so long as he doesn’t get caught, he will know he has succeeded.

* * *

Getting Septimus alone is even more of a challenge than getting Harry alone is. Tom has to work at it a bit. They’re not close, he and Septimus, but Septimus is fairly decent at picking up on hints; Tom signals for Septimus to stay behind following their first informal Muggle Studies lesson in the library.

“You saw what happened that day,” Tom says, once their solitude is assured.

“Yeah,” Septimus says, the context apparent to him without the need to ask what Tom’s talking about. “Did you have more questions?”

Tom smiles. “Which two were the worst, would you say?”

“I told you,” Septimus says. His hands clench once around the open mouth of his bookbag. “I didn’t see who did it.”

“But surely you have a guess,” Tom presses. “Just two names, Septimus. If you had to pick, who would they be?” Two targets for them to aim for.

“Lestrange,” says Septimus. His grip on the mouth of his bag slackens, and he pulls his drawstrings shut. “I don’t know who else. No one stood out. But why two?”

“Because you’re going to help me,” Tom says, “and more than two will be too difficult to manage.”

Septimus grimaces, sighs, and shuffles his feet. “Then I’d say Avery. My dad says his family’s no good. They’re always voting against pro-Muggleborn laws in Wizengamot sessions.”

“Avery,” says Tom, testing the syllables out, rolling the sound of the ‘R’. Then he continues, “Then that’s sorted.”

Septimus pulls his bag over his shoulder. “Tom, when is it that you plan to do something?”

“Not yet,” Tom says. “But soon. And I told Harry that I’d let him know before I did anything.”

Septimus seems relieved. “That’s good. I don’t want to have to lie to Harry anymore. The Quidditch was one thing, because it wasn’t really outright lying, but I’d like to avoid it.”

As predicted, then. Septimus doesn’t like lying to Harry. With so many older siblings, Tom would have assumed Septimus would be an excellent liar. But maybe Septimus is too honest for that, too simple to construct the appropriate reactions when telling a lie.

“Don’t worry,” Tom assured him. “I won’t put you in a position like that.” If it’s necessary, then Tom will have to be the one to lie. He will lie to Septimus, and Septimus will be none the wiser. This way, Tom can ease Septimus’ guilty conscience without upsetting his own plans.

“Good,” Septimus says, smiling. “I’m glad we’ve got that sorted.”

“Of course. Now, there’s a different room I want you to take a look at,” Tom says, tone casual, “the next time we finish with History of Magic.”

They won’t visit it now, not while the others are waiting for them, but Tom wants Septimus to know where it is and what he plans for them to do there in the future.

* * *

Trials with the Dreamless Sleep potion and the mice continue, only now that Harry and Septimus have Quidditch practice, Tom finds it easier to get more work done—namely, work that Harry doesn’t need to be there for.

Tom and the Greengrass sisters hang about in their usual empty classroom, running tests and taking notes. Over the course of this process, they learn that the amount of potion consumed has nothing to do with the size and weight of the drinker. The effect of the potion depends entirely on the amount consumed, only this amount is different for mice than it is for people.

The logic of it baffles Tom, who cannot comprehend why a single drop of Dreamless Sleep should last exactly as long for the largest, fattest mouse as it does the smallest, skinniest one, yet have little to no effect on a full grown child. Perhaps magic could detect the type of species consuming the potion? But how?

Frustrating questions aside, Tom has found enough answers to continue with his plan, even if the mechanics behind the potion are still a mystery. So he’ll have to be content with that for now.

Once the issue of the mice is settled, Tom moves onto examining the sack of Dungbombs that he had asked Adelaide to purchase for him, and the experiments begin anew.

Annalise alternates between helping and studying, though she spends more time chattering than she does actually doing either of those things. Mostly, she is cheerful. Annalise may have bouts of melancholy, but she does an excellent job of hiding them now, especially compared to their first year of classes. 

Adelaide, however, doesn’t talk much about anything other than their school work or their extracurriculars. If Tom didn’t know differently, he would have assumed Adelaide was the one who spent her entire summer locked away in some girls’ school for propriety. Still, Tom isn’t familiar enough with her to tell if she’s been acting any different.

Overall, none of the behaviour bothers Tom very much. It’s nicer when he doesn’t have to force himself to make meaningless chatter. The girls typically do as he asks, even if Adelaide makes a point to direct snide comments here and there.

After about two weeks of Quidditch practices and research sessions, Tom thinks he has enough information to move on with his plan. Moving on with the plan has its downsides, though. Tom is supposed to tell Harry before he does anything. He’d promised to do so.

Tom is well aware he doesn’t _ want _ to tell Harry anything because he knows Harry won’t approve. But Tom doesn’t do things for Harry’s approval—he does things _for_ Harry. All their friends understand this, and so Harry should as well.

Tom knows what he’s doing; he makes his own decisions. If Harry remains innocent and unaware of Tom’s wrongdoings, then there will be no more arguments between the two of them, and eventually Harry will see the sense of things.

This thought carries Tom through the week as he questions their non-Gryffindor classmates about their course schedules. From those conversations, he pieces the schedule together: Slytherin has their History of Magic class the same time as Gryffindor and Hufflepuff’s Herbology class.

Which is perfect, because double the amount of students means it will be twice as hard for Professor Beery to keep track of who has left early. It shouldn’t be hard for Tom and Septimus to escape the classroom if the others cover for them.

In Potions class on Monday morning, Tom slips an unsigned note into Cassian Lestrange’s bookbag with a time and a date, and pockets two of the many extra coils of rope lying about in the ingredients cupboard. He also takes a few other items, just to confuse anyone who checks, and disposes of all the extra evidence in various places around the school. It does no harm to be thorough.

* * *

Despite not knowing why, Annalise and Harry are willing to provide a distraction in Herbology class. Well, that’s not entirely true. Harry isn’t exactly _ willing, _ but he’ll help out because he doesn’t want Tom to get into trouble.

Harry spends most of the class shooting Tom indecipherable looks. Tom knows he’ll be paying later on for keeping secrets from Harry, but for now, everything is fine. Harry won’t raise an argument in the middle of class.

Speaking of their class, Professor Beery is, unfortunately, a competent professor. Holding the man’s attention long enough to distract him without actually putting the class in any danger is a problem that consumes most of their final hour of class.

By the time Septimus and Tom actually exit the greenhouses, there are only fifteen minutes left for them to head inside and towards the History of Magic classroom on the fourth floor. Septimus has left his bag in the greenhouse with Annalise and Harry, but Tom has his own bag with him, full of his prepared supplies.

“Are you sure about this, Tom?” Septimus asks, puffing with strain as they run down the halls. They have to take the less populated routes in order to avoid being seen, which lengthens their route further. “This is more than just some prank. We could get into real trouble for this.”

“It’ll be fine,” Tom says. “No one will trace it back to you.”

“That’s not all that I’m worried about,” Septimus mutters.

Tom ignores this comment. He’s been planning this moment for ages—payback for the tripping incident, a warning to those who are watching, and a way of exacting revenge, posthumously, on the cause of Harry’s nightmares.

Everything fits. It’s the perfect scheme.

Nevermind that Tom Riddle, twelve years old and the bearer of more confidence than is justly owed to him, has already done terrible, terrible things. He’s hurt other children, frightened them with savage threats and nasty looks. He’s lied through his teeth, pushing his own agenda from beneath that beautiful, charming mask.

And he killed Billy Stubbs’ rabbit, strangled it to death, all those years ago.

And now, now he’s committed the worst crime of them all—

He’s broken his promise to Harry.

Harry doesn’t know, and if Tom has his way, Harry will _ never _ know. Not unless Tom can be sure Harry will see things his way. The _ right _ way. And Septimus will keep his mouth shut, because he is now an accomplice, and Tom will hold that over Septimus if he has to.

Tom Riddle, twelve years old and as misguided as he ever was, is set in his views of the world around him. There are those to draw to his side, and there are those to crush underfoot.

Then there is Harry, in a category all on his own. The one person Tom has sworn never to lose.

“Just do everything I tell you,” Tom says. “And no one will have to know we’ve done anything at all.”

They turn a corner, their shoes thumping on the stone floor. Tom’s bag smacks against his hip with each subsequent, jarring step he takes. The rhythm helps him think as he goes over his plan.

One prank toy infused with Dreamless Sleep potion, the dosage just enough to knock out two students for the next three hours. Two lengths of rope to tie them up, and one dusty, empty cupboard in an unused classroom to place them in.

Missing lunch is hardly the worst thing that could happen. Missing the class after might pose some problems.

But if Tom knows the house of the ambitious as well as he believes he does, then they won’t go telling, because telling is admitting weakness, that someone got one over them, and they will refuse to do that on principle. Better to lick wounds in private than complain about them where everyone can hear.

“If you say so, Tom,” says Septimus. “I don’t think this is a good idea, and I don’t think any good will come of it. I’m only helping you because you’ll get into trouble if you try this alone.”

“Fine,” Tom snaps. “Whatever the reason, you better not mess this up. How much time left?”

Septimus checks the watch on his wrist. It’s an old one, likely leftover from an older brother, judging by the worn leather strap. “We’ve got about seven minutes, and that’s if they didn’t decide to skip out on the end.”

“We can make it,” Tom says, decisive. “We only need to be there before they are.”

Seven more minutes, and then Tom will finally, finally be able to claim power the way he’d done at Wool’s—by force, by right. He is smarter, stronger, _ better, _ and there will be no one to deny this once he is through with his plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this chapter took a while for various reasons that are probably not very interesting to you as readers. still kind of don't like this chapter that much oops. i hope all the characters come across as actual 12-year-olds as this continues, because things are about to get a little messy 👀
> 
> next chapter: consequences :)


	10. responsibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actions have consequences.

Everything goes according to plan until dinner time.

During dinner, Septimus pushes his mashed sweet potatoes around on his plate while Tom scoops a second helping of pasta.

The Slytherin table is missing two students.

Annalise, oblivious to what has happened, starts up a conversation about their school assignments. Harry’s jaw clenches and unclenches between bites of food. He’s avoiding Tom’s gaze, and he has been doing so ever since lunch ended.

Tom knows that once he gets a chance to explain, Harry will forgive him. Tom’s only done this to _ protect, _ to ensure that no bullies ever touch Harry ever again. Tom has done this because he cares, and that is what Harry _ needs. _ He needs to be cared for, because no one has ever done it before. Not properly, and not in the way that Tom can.

“I’m finished,” Harry says to his plate. He slides back and stands up. “I’ll be in the common room.”

“I’ll go with you,” Tom says promptly, even though there’s still pasta on his plate.

“I’m fine,” Harry says. “You can finish your meal, Tom.”

Tom shakes his head. “I’m done. I wanted to talk with you anyways—” He stops mid sentence, because his eyes catch on Adelaide, who is making purposeful strides towards them.

“Annalise,” says Adelaide, coming to a stop beside their table. “Are you done eating? I need to talk to you. It’s—” Adelaide stares down the table, from face to face to face, settling on Tom for a brief period before she tears her gaze back to her sister. “It’s important. Please?”

“Yes, of course,” says Annalise, scrambling to her feet. She dabs at her mouth with her napkin and tosses it on top of her plate, which vanishes.

Tom and Harry, both standing in place, watch as the girls depart.

“Wonder what that’s about,” says Septimus, sounding worried. “Maybe I should go after them?”

“Leave it,” Tom says, the same time that Harry says, “Let them have some space for a while?”

“Right,” says Septimus, wary. “See you in the common room, then.” He glances at Harry, then at Tom, then goes back to focusing on his plate.

Tom turns to Harry, who appears resigned to having company. “Let’s go,” Harry says.

* * *

Harry doesn’t lead them to the common room.

Instead, they detour out onto the grounds that lead out to the Forbidden Forest. Tom can tell that Harry is fuming, so he says nothing as they make their way outside. They haven’t gotten very far when Tom notices the Greengrass sisters have had the same idea.

From this distance, Tom can hear the two girls yelling at each other.

Harry stops as he notices the commotion. “We should go back in, maybe,” Harry says. “I don’t think we should be seeing this.”

“We’ll stay well out of their way,” Tom says, though truthfully he’s curious as to what their argument is about.

Adelaide hands make sharp gestures in the air while she shouts, and although Annalise seems close to tears, she is yelling back, face red and splotchy. Her words are inaudible, but her anger is unmistakable.

Neither Harry nor Tom have moved, but they somehow attract Adelaide’s attention. Her eyes flicker upwards, towards them, and her face changes, morphing into a placcid mask. She grasps her sister by the wrist, hauling her towards where Harry and Tom are standing.

Annalise struggles until she sees where they are going, and then she follows at a brisk pace, stumbling to keep up with Adelaide’s quicker strides.

“You’ve failed, Riddle,” says Adelaide, once she is close enough to speak. “I warned you what would happen if you did. You stay away from my sister, do you hear me? She doesn’t need more trouble on her head because you can’t keep your temper in check.”

“What happened?” Harry asks. “What are you talking about?”

“Lestrange had a reaction to the potion Riddle gave him,” Adelaide says. Then to Tom, she adds, “He nearly suffocated to death in the cupboard you locked him in. He’s been in the Hospital Wing all afternoon.”

Tom stiffens, and Adelaide scowls fiercely in return. It’s the angriest he’s ever seen her.

“Don’t worry,” Adelaide says, tone flat. “You’re not in any trouble. No one is saying anything or naming any names. But there’s going to be an inquiry, and even if nothing comes of it, they’re not about to forget any time soon. They’ll have told their parents.”

Her voice rises as her eyes narrow further in Tom’s direction. “So I’m not going to let Annalise and I get tangled up in another revenge plot if I can help it. Wear your target on your back, on your forehead, I don’t care. But stay away from Annalise, or I’ll make you regret it.”

* * *

“This is your fault,” Harry says, once the sisters are gone. “You took things too far, Tom.”

Tom doesn’t answer. He feels like he’s about to throw his dinner up all over the grass beneath their feet. Only the churning sensation is crawling up from his stomach and into his lungs, too, and he doesn’t know how to get rid of it.

Harry turns to face him. “Are you even sorry?”

“No,” says Tom, but it sounds hesitant. “I’m not sorry,” he says, firmer this time. “They deserved it. Lestrange _ deserved _ it.” This, he is sure of.

“Adelaide doesn’t even want to be around us anymore,” Harry says sadly. “And she doesn’t want Annalise to be around us. Does that not matter to you?”

“We don’t really need them,” Tom says. “And Adelaide will come around eventually. We made an agreement to help each other. She needs my help.”

Harry blows out a gust of air. “You don’t see it, do you? You don’t see that what you did was wrong.”

Harry starts to walk back up to the castle, his strides faster than usual, and Tom is forced to follow to keep the conversation going.

“I told you, Harry. I told you I’d take care of them. I should have been more careful, but how could I have known he’d have a reaction? If anything, it ought to scare them off from bothering you again—”

“I don’t care about that!” Harry yells, and the sudden outburst is startling. “I said that I didn’t. You _ lied _ to me, Tom. You promised to tell me what you were going to do, and then you didn’t. That’s what matters to me. How am I supposed to trust you when you lie to me?”

When their gazes meet, Tom sees that Harry’s green eyes are glossy, watering, and pink around the edges. The sight of them tugs at the uncomfortable feeling in Tom’s gut.

‘You’re upset,” Tom says.

“Yes,” Harry bites back. “I am.”

Tom’s nausea has subsided somewhat, but his chest feels tight, compressed. His breathing has sped up, but even so it’s like he’s not inhaling enough air. Tom tugs at Harry’s arm, trying to hold Harry in place so they can talk properly.

“I’m sorry,” Tom says quickly. “I’m sorry for lying.”

Harry shakes his head back and forth, then pulls his arm away, rubbing at his face with the sleeve of his robe. “Don’t, Tom. I’m mad at you. You need to mean it when you say that.”

“I do mean it,” Tom says. “Why else would I say it?”

“You said that last time. That you were sorry.”

“I made a mistake,” Tom amends. “It was a mistake. I didn’t mean to break my promise to you.”

“Yes, you did! You _ deliberately _ didn’t tell me,” Harry shouts. There are tears welling up in the corners of his eyes, dribbling down his reddened cheeks. He sniffles, the sound of it wet and angry, and drops his eyes to the floor.

“It was a mistake,” Tom repeats, voice dull and empty.

Harry pulls his glasses off so he can wipe at his face some more. “Maybe it was. But that doesn’t make it better, Tom. You took things too far, and you’re still not sorry about it. You don’t care.”

“I care about _ you,_” Tom tries. He takes a step closer. “Isn’t that what you want? Isn’t that what’s most important? Just you and I, Harry. That’s all I care about.”

“That’s not what I want,” Harry says. “That’s what _ you _ want. You want to not have to care about other people, because you want them all as, as _ followers, _ as servants to boss around. You want to treat Hogwarts like you do Wool’s.”

Tom doesn’t have a response to this. The words are true, in a way. He wants followers. He wants people to do what he tells them to. But he also wants—he wants Harry. On the balancing scale of the things he wants, Harry’s weight rests heavy. Only that’s too hard to explain. The meaning of his relationship with Harry isn’t something that can be written into an essay, six inches due Monday.

“I don’t understand,” Tom says, growing more frustrated by the second. “I don’t know what you want me to _ do, _ Harry. I’m trying my best here, to do what you’ve asked of me. I’ve kept you safe, and I’ve let you play Quidditch. _ And _ I help everyone study for their exams! So helping us with other things is the least they can do. I’m not forcing Septimus to do anything, or Annalise, or Adelaide. They do what I ask them because they want to!”

“I don’t want you to help people because I ask you to. I want you to be nice to our friends because you want to! That’s why people do things for each other. Because they want to. Not because of favours or revenge.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Tom says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ve told you this before. I don’t care about everyone else. What they think, what they do, what happens to them—it doesn’t matter so long as it doesn’t affect our goals.”

“Fine!” Harry says, throwing his hands up in a gesture of carelessness. “You don’t care. But I do care, and I don’t want Annalise to have to pick between having friends or not because you wanted to get some stupid revenge for something that didn’t even matter.”

“It was not _ stupid_,” Tom says, tone sharp. “It was necessary. Or have you forgotten what happens when you let the bullies win, Harry? I locked Lestrange and Avery in a cupboard for a reason.” He’d done it for Harry. He’d done it to prove a point.

“It’s not about winning, Tom, it’s about avoiding those situations to begin with! You made everything worse,” Harry snaps. “Stop trying to talk your way out of it. That doesn’t work on me.” Harry’s hands are trembling, and Tom aches with the urge to grab them, hold them still. 

“What about everything I’ve done for you?” Tom demands. “Does it mean nothing, now? Just because you don’t like the results?”

“It means I’m mad at you!” Harry says, seething. “And you won’t let me be mad, because you still think you’re right! I don’t want to talk to you anymore. I’m leaving.”

“You’re not leaving,” Tom says furiously. “We’re not done talking.” He reaches out against, his fingers scrabbling against the sleeve of Harry’s robes.

“We are!” Harry shouts back, twisting away. “We’re done talking. Leave me alone, Tom.”

Tom’s vision is blurring around the edges. His breathing is non-existent, his heart hammering and thrashing out and out and out of his chest.

“No,” Tom says, and he can feel a crackling, a tingling in his hands, his fingertips. “No, we’re not.”

Tom wants to shove Harry down and shout at him until Harry is forced to listen and see sense. His arms are shaking with the need, the surety that once Harry understands, everything will go back to the way it had been before. Harry will go back to smiling. Harry will go back to saying that Tom is smart and appreciated and wanted. Harry will go back to being his.

But Harry is shaking his head, is walking away.

Tom staggers towards him, arms outstretched, possessed by his fervor.

And then—

And then—

Harry makes a noise that freezes Tom in place. It’s a soft, watery noise that is choked off.

Harry is crying, Tom realizes. Harry is crying, and it’s his fault. Somehow this had not registered until now, until the sound of it reached his ears.

Tom’s arms drop away, his pace slowing to a stop.

Harry leaves.

* * *

Septimus is the only one waiting in the common room when Tom arrives. He’s sat at their table, staring blankly at his Transfiguration textbook. He startles when Tom settles into the chair across from him.

“You’ve heard?” asks Septimus.

Tom sets his bag on top of the table and pulls out a random assignment. “I have.”

“Annalise didn’t say anything when she came back, but I think her and Adelaide must have had a row over it,” Septimus says.

“Adelaide wants her sister to stay away from us.”

“What?” Septimus sits up, textbook forgotten. “Why?”

“Too much unwanted attention,” Tom says in a clipped tone.

Septimus frowns, his hands clasped on either side of his book. “So she can’t spend time with us anymore? Because their parents won’t like it.”

“Something like that, I assume.”

Septimus closes his book entirely, setting it aside. “That’s not good, Tom. She’s already spent all summer alone. It won’t do her any favours to keep to herself all year.”

It won’t. The isolation will probably worsen Annalise’s insecurities and increase her anxiety. “I know,” Tom says. The assignment he’s staring at shifts in and out of focus. Which one is this? Herbology? He had an outline for this planned out, only he hadn’t written it down because the assignment was an easy one...

“We need to fix this, then,” Septimus says. “Though I’m not sure how. I don’t think Slytherins—well, they’re not the kind to accept apologies,” Septimus finishes, hasty.

“I wouldn’t want to apologize anyways.” Tom retrieves his quill and begins a new sentence on his piece of parchment.

A minute goes by, filled only with the sound of Tom’s quill scratching out words in black ink.

“Where’s Harry?” asks Septimus.

Tom doesn’t flinch at the name, and he counts that as a victory. “He went for a walk to clear his head.”

“Okay.” Septimus opens his textbook back up. “Have you thought of any new plans yet?”

“No.”

They work in silence. Tom finds it nearly impossible to focus, but he manages a few more sentences on the life cycle of the Mandrake before Harry returns to the common room. Harry takes one look at their table, then heads directly for the stairs to the boys’ dorms.

Septimus’ eyes follow Harry’s progress across the room. Harry doesn’t pause at any point in his journey, and eventually he has moved out of sight.

“I know you don’t want to hear this right now,” Septimus begins. Then he coughs slightly, tilting his chin up.

“Then don’t say it,” Tom says, already irritated.

“But I think you _ need _ to hear it,” Septimus says. “Harry’s only going to keep getting mad at you if you don’t tell him things, and he’s got all the right in the world to be mad. You need to treat him better, which means telling him what you’re up to.”

“If I did that with everything, then I’d never get anything done,” Tom snaps.

“That’s not true,” Septimus protests. “We get assignments done together all the time. And the study guide that Harry worked on.”

Tom grits his teeth, setting his quill down so he doesn’t break it by accident.

“You want to keep Harry safe,” Septimus says quietly. “But it won’t work if you push him away.”

“And since when did you become such an expert?” Tom asks.

“Since I’ve got six older brothers,” Septimus says, crossing his arms in a huff. “I know what it’s like to have people lining up to look after you.”

Tom chews on the inside of his cheek, scowling. He knows he’s only being contrary for the sake of it, but Septimus is so intent on prying his head open that he can’t help it. _ He can’t help it. _ He has to deny it, to insist that he’s right. To admit failure is to admit weakness, and he is not weak.

“I will fix this,” Tom says instead. “I will fix this, all of this, and then everything will go back to normal. Does that make you feel better?”

“Sure,” Septimus says. “But if you’re going to fix this, then you need to do it the right way. I can help you, if you want. This is partly my fault, too.”

It isn’t. Septimus had only gone along with this because Tom had asked him to.

“I just don’t want this to end up with us brawling in the corridors,” Septimus adds. “Because that’s where this is headed. They won’t hold back if they think they can get away with it.”

Much like Tom had. “It won’t come to that,” Tom says, willing both himself and Septimus to believe it. “I have it under control.”

Septimus closes his textbook again and puts it away. “What are we going to do for breakfast tomorrow?”

“Breakfast?”

“If you and Harry are fighting, and Annalise isn’t supposed to sit with us.”

The answer to that is simple, isn’t it? Septimus should sit with Harry. If Harry won’t sit with him, then Septimus is the next best choice, and Septimus will tell him if anything happens. Tom opens his mouth to say so, then pauses as Harry’s accusation floats back to him.

_ I don’t want Annalise to have to pick between having friends or not. _

Septimus raises his brows, expectant. 

Tom wipes his face clear of any expression. If he’s to fix this, then he needs to do things the way Harry would want him to do them. That means granting as much consideration to others as he does Harry. More consideration than he had been giving them before, at the very least.

“Sit with Annalise,” says Tom, making the choice, sealing his decision. “I’ll sort things out with Harry myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took so long to write, and i don't fully like it. but i figured it's more important, at this point, for me to move the story along before i get stuck on this plot point forever sdljkgfdh
> 
> anyways. hope this chapter was good!


	11. growth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom learns the difference between what he wants and what he values.

Next morning at breakfast, Tom is the last one to arrive at the Gryffindor table. He had not slept well last night; he had been too caught up in all of the possible scenarios for this upcoming interaction. He does note that the Slytherin table is full except for Lestrange, who must still be in the Hospital Wing.

At the Gryffindor table, Septimus and Annalise are seated together. A distance away from them, Harry is seated by himself. Tom takes a breath and makes his way over.

Harry is pushing his helping of oatmeal around in his bowl when Tom walks up to him. There’s a sullen air around Harry that reeks of dejection.

Tom clears his throat. “Harry,” he says.

Harry doesn’t look up, but he does answer, “Yes?”

Around them, the table takes note; people shift, heads craning to watch the stilted exchange. The separation between Harry and the rest must be noticeable. Last night, Tom had taken care to head up after everyone had gone to bed so as not to arouse suspicion. But now, it is clear that the two of them—he and Harry—are in the midst of a row.

It takes a second for Tom to unstick his lips to reply. His tongue is heavy and feels like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth. “May I join you?” he asks.

This is a question he’d once asked three years ago. Before Hogwarts. Before they had known each other at all, really. Tom had gone up to Harry at the seaside and asked to sit next to him. And after that, he’d gone and killed Billy Stubbs’ rabbit. Had strangled the thing with rope and hung it up. Harry hadn’t liked his methods then, either. He must like them even less now.

Harry looks up. His eyes have always been green, green like the house Tom had longed to go to. But Tom had chosen this green over the other one. He’d chosen Harry.

Harry shuffles down a bit on the bench to make room, and the tightness in Tom’s chest loosens by several degrees. Harry isn’t mad enough to turn him away. It’s a start.

Tom fills his plate without speaking further. Harry’s presence next to him feels normal, soothing. But it also feels dangerous, like if they get too close right now, the tentative peace between them will snap.

Harry finishes eating first. Tom places a hand on Harry’s elbow to stop him from standing, and Harry’s eyes flare up, indignant. The anger cools, however, when Harry catches sight of Tom’s face. Everything about Harry softens minutely as they make eye contact for the second time this morning.

“I can learn,” Tom says, willing Harry to believe him, to understand. “I can try.”

“Will you?” Harry asks. He does not sound judgemental; he sounds tired. Tom is reminded of yesterday, of the discomfort he’d felt knowing that he’d caused Harry distress.

Tom has never lacked conviction. When he decides to do things, he _ does _ them. He’d told Septimus that he would sort things with Harry, and above that, he’d promised to Harry that they would always be together.

It was the sort of promise that held stronger than the one he’d broken. It was a promise he would keep even if Harry was mad at him, even if Harry told him to stay away.

“I will,” Tom says softly. A new promise; one he means to keep.

* * *

Harry sits with him during the day’s classes, but after dinner, he excuses himself and leaves, shooting Tom a warning glance and jerking his head in a directive not to follow.

Tom accepts this with poor grace, stabbing at his carrots. Lestrange had been discharged around noon looking physically fine, if tired around the edges. And Lestrange had been back at the Slytherin table for afternoon classes and dinner. No one has looked Tom’s way or come to talk to him. Maybe they’re waiting.

Some seats down, Septimus and Annalise are failing to disguise their worried glances. Leo and Francesca are also sitting there. Tom wonders what excuse Septimus has given them for the distance between him and Harry.

“You alright, Riddle?”

It’s Louisa. Tom takes his time in looking up. Her demeanour is composed, her posture casual, but her gaze feels heavier than usual.

“Fine,” he says.

She purses her lips, cocking her head to the side. “Maybe take a walk after supper, yeah? Clear your head. You seem a tad peaky. Not a good time to get sick.”

“Sure.”

Louisa walks back over to where her friends are seated, and Tom no longer feels hungry. Maybe a walk isn’t such a bad idea, he concedes. A chance to stretch his legs and forget about how he feels when Harry avoids looking at him.

* * *

Some time later, Tom finds himself outside the classroom on the fifth floor. All the walking he’d done had failed to alleviate his restlessness. He can’t go back to the common room, not if Harry’s there. He doesn’t even know what Harry wants, other than space. What good does space do? They ought to be talking about things. Harry needs to tell him what he can do to fix this. How to fix this.

Tom scowls at the bare stone walls and shoves the door to the classroom open.

Someone screams, and Tom has to dodge a brightly-coloured jinx as it’s aimed his way.

“Hey!” Tom yells, whipping his own wand out.

Then he sees who it is.

Adelaide’s seated cross-legged on the floor, her back pressed against the far wall, a shawl draped over her shoulders. As her eyes focus on him, her face scrunches up, and she drops her wand to the floor with a clatter that echoes loudly in the empty classroom.

“Oh,” she says. “It’s you.”

Tom lowers his wand. His heart is hammering away, his breaths short and panting. He takes a second to compose himself. “I can leave,” he tells her. “I didn’t think anyone would be in here.”

She snorts. “Do what you want. That’s what you like, isn’t it?”

“I can leave if you want me to,” Tom repeats in a level tone, squashing down his irritation.

Adelaide shrugs. “No one here to see us, Riddle. Might as well have a seat.”

Tom pulls out a chair a few paces away from her and settles into it. Upon closer inspection, it would seem that Adelaide’s been crying. Her hair is loose from its usual ponytail, a loose mess over her shoulders, and her eyes are pink with the look of recently-shed tears.

“Is Annalise still mad at you?” he asks.

“She is,” Adelaide says. “Is Harry still mad at you?”

“He is,” Tom echoes.

Adelaide exhales, a huge gust of air blown out of her lungs. “Why does everything have to be so bloody complicated?” she asks, closing her eyes and slumping her head against the wall.

Tom’s not sure if she wants an answer. “The world isn’t complicated,” he says. “It’s the people that are.” Not all people, not everyone. But the people worth knowing are not simple enough to deconstruct into their basic parts. It’s why he’d sought Harry out to begin with, because Harry isn’t like the rest. Because Harry is like him.

“People,” Adelaide mutters. “It’s always about _ people. _ What do people think? What are they saying? Who are they connected with? I get tired thinking about people. I barely have time to think about myself.”

“You think about your sister,” Tom says.

“I do. I think about her more than anyone else.” Adelaide sits up, stares at him. “I noticed Septimus has been sitting with her all day.”

“I told him to.”

Adelaide’s mouth pulls flat. “I’m sure you did.” Then she sighs, stretching her arms over her knees. “Thank you,” she adds. “For doing what I asked.”

Tom nods in acknowledgment. “Do your parents really care that much who you spend your time with?” he asks.

“Yes.” Her head drops down a fraction. “Our mother. She has _ aspirations _ for us. She loves socializing, ladder-climbing, all of it.” 

Adelaide kicks at the floor, frowning at it, then continues, “My parents were an arranged marriage. I don’t trick myself into thinking they’re fond of each other. All our mother wants is for us to have the life she couldn’t, the freedoms she left behind when she shackled herself to the Greengrass name. She might have the money and the titles, but she’ll never be happy. Not with our father as head of the household.”

Tom absorbs the information, layers the meaning of the words over the girl sitting before him. The backstory adds depth, he thinks. It explains a good deal.

“She wants you to succeed,” Tom says slowly. “With your grades.”

“With everything. To earn enough influence for her to leave my father for good, I suspect. Or to rid us of him in some other way,” Adelaide lifts her gaze up, and her eyes are serious. “She doesn’t hate him, but she hates that she’s stuck with him. The scandal if they divorced would be awful, I’m sure. But Sebastian’s certainly not going to get us anywhere. He’s my father’s son through and through.”

Tom rubs his hands on his robes, thinks over what to say to her. He’s not practiced in comfort. He doesn’t know what she wants to hear. “I told you that I would help,” he says. “That promise still holds. I’ll help you do what it takes to get away from all of that.”

Adelaide looks down at the floor again, like maybe it holds the answers she needs, the salvation she seeks. “I know.”

* * *

When Tom arrives back at the common room, Harry isn’t there. The steps up to the dorm are slow going; Tom takes his time, half-hoping that Harry is upstairs alone.

Tom’s wish is granted when he pushes open the door and sees Harry lounging on his bed, book on his lap.

“Harry,” he says. He doesn’t move, doesn’t go to sit on his own bed. If Harry tells him to leave, then he’ll go, even though that’s not what he wants to hear.

Harry slides to the left side of the bed and pats the empty space. “Come sit.”

Tom feels gratefulness flood him, followed by a burning irritation that he tries hard to ignore. With some effort, he manages to push it down. It’s Harry. Harry wouldn’t make him feel small on purpose, wouldn’t push him away unless he was actually upset. Tom has to believe that. He has to believe those things.

“Are you still mad at me?” Tom asks.

Harry picks at invisible lint on his trousers. “I don’t know,” Harry says. “Sometimes I feel like I am. Or I feel like I got too mad for no reason. But you did lie to me. That’s not something that I can just forget about, Tom.”

Tom had tried to apologize for that, but Harry hadn’t liked it. Should he try again now? Harry certainly seems more open to talking.

Harry shuffles in place on the bed, avoiding Tom’s eyes. “Septimus said you asked him to sit with Annalise. Is that true?”

“Yes,” Tom says. His heart is beating fast again, and his head feels like a balloon, stuffed full and ready to float away. Had that been the wrong choice? Should he have told Septimus to stay with Harry instead?

“That’s good. I’m glad you did that.”

No small amount of relief seeps into him at Harry’s words. Tom shakes his head. “I don’t like you sitting alone, either.”

“I’m okay.” Harry lifts his head, smiles just a little. “I have you, don’t I?”

Tom’s chest warms. Yes, things are okay. Harry is still by his side, and that is all he needs. “I’m going to fix this,” Tom promises, the words rushing out. “I will, Harry. I promise. And then Annalise can sit with us again.”

* * *

Annalise comes up to them the next day. The hour is early, and the Great Hall is not full yet. Students are trickling in for breakfast. Harry has two pieces of toast with butter and jam on his plate while Tom peels an orange.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks as Annalise sits next to him.

“I’m sitting with my friends,” she says. Then she reaches for a piece of toast and begins to butter it, her motions sharp and purposeful.

Harry opens his mouth to protest, but Tom nudges him into silence.

“Are you sure?” Tom asks.

Annalise nods firmly. “I’m sure. I already spent my whole summer being punished. I won’t spend the whole year being punished when they’re not even here.” She sets her toast down on her plate.

“That’s brave of you,” Harry says. “We really don’t mind if you have to stay away, though. I don’t want you getting in trouble.”

“I’ve made up my mind,” says Annalise. “You’re my friends, and I want to have breakfast with you.”

Tom finishes peeling his orange, splits it in half, and offers a piece to Annalise.

Annalise takes it. Harry smiles. It is a good morning.

* * *

On their way to Transfiguration, they run into the Slytherin second years. Tom is expecting a hex or jinx thrown his way. He’s expecting to be tripped or shoved into the wall. What he gets are cold stares and a mocking sneer from Avery. 

Retribution is coming, only in what form?

Tom tucks the troublesome question away for later, walks a little closer to Harry as they turn the corner and head down another hallway. He’s proven that he’s not unwilling to break the rules, to get his hands dirty.

If they’re smart, they’ll stay away. If they’re smart, they won’t look twice at Harry Evans again. 

* * *

The following Friday, Harry and Septimus have Quidditch practice. Annalise goes with them to spectate, and so Tom finds himself back at the empty classroom with Adelaide Greengrass.

“Look at this,” Adelaide says angrily, brandishing a letter at him. “It’s a Howler. I had to run out of the girl’s dorm when I got it.”

Tom’s heard of Howlers, but he’s never seen one or witnessed a live one before. Cautiously, he takes the parchment from her and reads it.

The letter itself is brief. The words, however, are scathing. Softened with the pleasantries of a loving parent, drenched in saccharine vocabulary, but also a warning to behave, a threat against failure.

A promise of cause and effect, should Adelaide and her sister act out of line.

And then, at the end of the page, a reminder of what will happen during the summer holidays should they bring dishonour to their family name. Strangely, the letter does not mention anything about the incident with the Slytherins, or any directives to stay away from him and Harry.

Tom hands the letter back and watches as Adelaide crumples it up and sets it on fire with her wand. They both eye the flames as the parchment burns to ashes on the stone floor.

“Sometimes I just want her to die,” Adelaide says darkly. “Is that bad?”

“I don’t think so.” From what Tom has gathered, the mother’s death wouldn’t be a great loss to anyone. “You don’t mean to do it yourself—kill her, I mean.”

“Or maybe if she could just, I don’t know, disappear? Even that would be better,” Adelaide says, bitter. “Our father mostly leaves us be. All he cares about is Sebastian.” She pulls her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. In this room, she is smaller than Tom has ever seen her be. “I wish she’d stop existing.”

Tom waits to see if she’ll say more, but she doesn’t. “Are you still mad at me?” he asks, knowing Adelaide has never been one to care about his bluntness.

Adelaide snorts a laugh. “Of course I’m still mad, you idiot. You made a mess of things. The worst part is that I can hardly fault you for it. I would do the same thing for my sister, if I had to.”

“Annalise insists on sitting with us,” Tom says. “Harry tried to dissuade her.”

“Oh, I know.” Adelaide pulls her hair into her hands and begins to braid. “She told me she would.”

Tom had always thought Annalise unsuited for Gryffindor. But recent events have changed his opinion of her. She is just as loyal as Septimus is. Just as willing to try.

“Will she get in trouble? Will you?” 

“If we do,” Adelaide says dryly, “you’ll be the first to know, Riddle.” She ties the end of her hair off with a ribbon and tosses it over her shoulder, and that’s how Tom knows the conversation, the moment of personal sharing, is done.

* * *

“Have you thought of anything yet?” Septimus asks, shutting the lid of his trunk.

Harry pauses, halfway through pulling his shoes on, and glances over at Tom.

“No,” Tom says. “Not yet. I’ve had other things on my mind.” Keeping up with school work, and keeping an eye over his shoulder for threats.

They whisper insults in the crowded halls, cough them out under the cover of bubbling cauldrons in Potions class, speak them in low murmurs outside on the cold, windy grounds. 

_ Mudblood. Mudblood. Mudblood. _

Tom doesn’t require an explanation from Septimus or Annalise to know what the word means. Dirty blood. Muggle blood. The shame Tom carries wherever he goes, has carried long before he ever stepped foot in the magical world. Harry isn’t even Muggleborn. He has a family and a title in this world. He has a place here.

Tom doesn’t. Tom has the memories of how children at Wool’s call him a freak. How that name had spread to Harry once they’d become friends. Tom had unravelled the secret of Harry Evans, had pulled Harry into his orbit. Because they are the same, because Tom deserves to have someone like Harry in his life. Someone who knows he’s _ special, _ not just different.

Tom knows what it’s like to feel excluded and spat upon, and he’s not about to stand for it here. Not in this place, not at Hogwarts, where his dreams will come true and his power will grow into something truly magnificent.

“Maybe they’ll forget,” Harry says idly. “They haven’t done anything other than call us names.”

Harry is naive. But Tom can’t blame him for the wishful thinking.

“Maybe they’re actually afraid,” Septimus adds.

The corner of Harry’s mouth tips downwards. Harry doesn’t agree. Tom knows that Harry wants everything to be fine, for the problems to melt away. Harry would endure any abuse heaped upon him if it would prevent more trouble for everyone else.

“Let’s go downstairs,” Tom says, cutting the conversation off before Harry can get more upset.

Fear is an excellent motivator. It keeps people away. It makes people _ listen. _ Tom wields fear as a tool and a weapon, uses it to get what he wants. A room with Harry at Wool’s. Safe haven at Hogwarts. Fear inspires _ results. _

But there are other ways for Tom to get people to do what he wants. Ways that he’s tried, ways that work. Tom had inspired their friends to help him, had drawn other students towards their group. He lives in the house of the brave and the determined, and there are no obstacles he cannot overcome.

* * *

A few days before the end of the month, Tom receives an invitation.

Thick, expensive parchment inviting him to meet in the courtyard just before dinner on Halloween. The note is signed by Cassian Lestrange, and it warns him to come alone.

Tom sits on the note for half the day before he shows it, reluctantly, to Harry. They’re walking the grounds again, this time because Tom asked for Harry to come with him.

“I don’t like this,” Harry says upon reading the invitation. “This is a terrible idea, Tom.”

“I need to see what it is that he wants,” Tom says reasonably. “I’ll bring Septimus with me.”

“Septimus?” Harry asks, confused, and Tom can hear a hint of hurt in his tone.

“Septimus was involved, too. He ought to have a say in what happens.” Truthfully, Tom just wants to know Harry is safe and far away from whatever this clandestine meeting will lead to. Not to mention it will be Harry’s birthday that day, and the last thing Tom wants is for that to be ruined.

“Well,” Harry says, rolling his shoulders back, “I can still come with you.”

“No, Harry, you won’t,” Tom says. Then he tries to gentle his tone as he adds, “It will be too suspicious if we all go missing at once.”

Harry glares. “You just don’t want me involved.”

Of course Tom doesn’t. He’d originally done this to _ help _ Harry, not to drag him into more of it.

“You know I’m right,” Tom says. “I came and told you about this letter, didn’t I? And I’ll tell you what happens at the meeting. I’m trying my best here, but you need to understand that doesn’t mean you can be involved in everything.”

“I don’t trust you not to leave me out on purpose,” Harry says, crossing his arms.

Tom grimaces. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“You would!” Harry says. “And you’ve already done it, so there.”

“If I’m going to fix this, then you need to trust me a little,” Tom says. “Otherwise this won’t work.”

Harry bristles some more, jams his hands down into the pockets of his robes as he stomps down the path. Tom follows along, impatient, waiting for Harry’s response.

“Yes?” Tom prompts eventually, because the silence is bothering him.

“Fine,” Harry says. “I guess it’s fine because you did come and tell me. And I’m going to ask Septimus what happens. So don’t you think about lying to me. ”

Tom doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like being ranked below _ Septimus _ in terms of trustworthiness. He hates the reminder that their friendship still isn’t fixed, that Harry doesn’t believe him when he says he’ll do better. 

“I’m making up for my mistake,” Tom says through gritted teeth. “The least you could do is not rub it in my face!”

Harry shakes his head. “That’s not how it works! You could still get in trouble for this. Did you think about that? What if you—what if you have to leave Hogwarts? What am I going to do then, Tom?”

Tom rocks back in place, stunned. Admittedly, that had not occurred to him as a possible consequence. Could he be expelled for this? People were saying that Lestrange had almost died, but Lestrange had been back in classes the very next day, so surely it couldn’t have been that bad? No permanent harm had been done, and everything is nearly back to normal.

“They wouldn’t expel me for that,” Tom says slowly. “And they’d have to expel Septimus, too. So it won’t happen.”

Harry presses his lips together. Then he says, “What do you think they’ll want?”

“I don’t know,” Tom says darkly. He suspects a revenge attack, maybe, but he can't guess what form it will take. “We will have to wait and see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thank you to all the lovely comments on the previous chapter. it helped encourage me to write this one much faster! next chapter will be an interlude, but i have yet to decide on the character POV just yet... so we shall see.
> 
> thanks for reading!


	12. interlude i: cassian lestrange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassian had underestimated Tom Riddle.

**Cassian Lestrange**

**First Year**

_ **January 1939** _

Cassian had underestimated Tom Riddle.

Had brushed off that first day in Potions class as unimportant; it wasn’t _ impressive _ for someone to have read the textbook before coming to class. Professor Slughorn has an eye for talent, but that eye can be wrong.

Everyone knows that being singled out by Slughorn means a chance at connections, at prestige and higher ranks. And Cassian has his family name, an illustrious history of Lestranges who shaped the world they now lived in.

Cassian, previously assured of his own intelligence and status, had received his first Potions assignment back with an ‘EE’ scribbled in red ink at the top. And then he had been forced to listen to Slughorn expound in great detail on Tom Riddle’s _ talent _ and _ genius. _

And from there, it had only gotten worse. The other professors doted on Riddle, praising his natural affinity for magic, his booksmarts, his winsome charm. Though Cassian and his friends scored consistently high on their assignments, all eyes were on the Gryffindor golden boy.

But Tom Riddle is an aberration. That’s the word Cassian’s father uses when he speaks about Mudbloods. They are _ aberrations. _

Riddle thinks he’s better than everyone else, that he’s the smartest in their year, but that’s not true, it isn’t, because Cassian’s been raised since birth knowing his place in this world, and that place is above the likes of Riddle and Evans and the rest of their pathetic group of blood-traitor friends.

All the Slytherins had been convinced that the winter exam results were a mistake, that there was no way some fresh-faced orphan could have climbed the ranks in their first term. None of their parents had been very happy with their standings. 

Cassian had not even ranked top five, and he knew that his father would not be pleased with this. The winter holidays would not pass in the joyous way that Cassian had hoped for, with his father telling him he had brought success to their family name.

But the end-of-year marks won’t lie, and Cassian, confronted with evidence that perhaps Tom Riddle simply is that smart, is not about to let this stand. Cassian will study harder than he ever has in his life, he will write his tutors for advice, and he will prove to all their professors who _ truly _ belongs at the top of the list.

* * *

Riddle often holds court in the library. Evans sits to Riddle’s right, a pile of notes and textbooks in front of him. They’re not a loud bunch, this group. They’re studious, serious. Even the Greengrass girl, who sometimes walks with a ridiculous skip in her step, sombers enough to scribble at her parchment for an hour or so.

Riddle and Evans walk everywhere together. While they have others that follow them around, it is always those two next to each other. Inseparable. Evans attaches himself to Riddle like a limpet, like a newborn colt on wobbly legs.

Cassian doesn’t think Evans is particularly talented or interesting, and he can’t imagine why Riddle likes to keep him around. Weasley and Greengrass are valuable allies with their family names and connections; Evans is a quiet nobody.

But what _ is _ clear to Cassian is that Riddle regards Evans as his own, as the most important part of his group, and that means there is a weakness to exploit.

* * *

_ **June 1939** _

The class rankings are released on one of the last few days of school. Cassian had woken early, had gone downstairs to find his name on the list of first year students.

He had seen his name listed second, and he had seen red.

Cassian had marched straight back upstairs to wake his dormmates. No one is happy to be woken early, but they are even less enthused to hear that Riddle has beaten them once again.

Lawrence swears a few times; Cassian pities him. Whatever his own father will do, Lawrence’s will likely go five steps worse. 

A second passes, then Lawrence kicks at his school trunk with a violent _ thwack _ sound.

“We’re going to get them,” Lawrence decides. “Riddle’s going to pay.”

The other boys shift, uncertain. Lawrence puffs his chest out, glaring them down.

Cassian adds his own voice to the conversation: “We will, and we’ll start with Evans.”

Edmund swings his legs off the bed, his expression thoughtful. “They’re always together, those two. Are you proposing we get Evans alone somehow?”

“It’s nearly the end of the year,” Alphard says, slowly, reluctantly. “What’s there to be gained from doing this now?”

“It’s not about _ gain,_” Cassian says sharply. “It’s about showing them their proper place. Filthy Mudbloods.”

Lawrence kicks his trunk hard enough to knock it into the bedframe.

The noise makes Cyril jump. “If you think so, Cassian,” he says, swiping an anxious hand through his hair.

“It’s early,” says Lawrence. “We’ll catch them on the way to breakfast. I want to see him sprawled on the floor. Won’t be so high and mighty then.”

“Let’s do it,” says Edmund. He stretches out his chubby arms, cracking the knuckles.

“Get up,” Lawrence adds to the rest. “Get dressed. Meet in the common room in ten minutes.”

Cassian, already awake and wearing his school robes, heads downstairs to wait.

* * *

It is a stroke of luck that they catch Evans with only Weasley and Greengrass in tow on the way to the Great Hall for breakfast. 

Weasley looks like all his brothers. Taller than most, red-haired and freckled. Greengrass is small, like a mouse. Her dark brown hair hangs in large curls that frame her face. She shuffles her feet and smiles hesitantly when Evans talks to her.

Evans is skinny and rumpled. Ink-black hair sits in a curled mess upon his head. His robes look almost too big for him, though that may be due to his poor posture rather than anything else. Evans blinks his bright green eyes from behind his round-framed glasses as he speaks.

From this distance, Cassian can hear that they’re talking about Quidditch. Do they not care about their marks? Who cares about Quidditch on _ today _ of all days?

Bitterly, Cassian is reminded that Evans got fifth place. Evans and Riddle are orphans. They don’t have any parents to care about their marks. Evans probably doesn’t even care about his ranking.

It is then that Lawrence flicks his wand, launching a purple spell through the corridor directly towards the trio of Gryffindors.

Evans trips. He trips, but he doesn’t fall over because Weasley moves, faster than expected, to catch him. Weasley stands his friend back up and avoids glancing at where Cassian and his friends are situated by the wall. 

Cassian smirks anyways, just in case any of them turn to look.

As Evans and Weasley start to walk off, Edmund shifts away from the wall. Alphard intervenes, holding him in place, stopping him.

The three Gryffindors retreat to the Great Hall.

Cassian unclenches his hand. There are red crescent moons where his nails had dug into the skin. He looks to his friends to see their reactions—

Alphard looks unbothered. Resigned to his rank, perhaps. Cassian has unseated Alphard in second, but Riddle somehow still trumps them both.

Lawrence looks about as mad as Cassian feels: his jaw is clenched, his wand sliding back from where it had been hidden in his sleeve and into his hand. Cassian exchanges a grim look with him.

Cyril says nothing. He glances nervously down the hall, as though expecting a prefect or a professor to come along and chastise them.

“We’ll get them next year,” Edmund says, shooting daggers with his eyes at Alphard. “We could have gotten them right then and there.”

“Beating them up doesn’t do anything,” Alphard says. “With someone like Riddle, you’ve got to outsmart him. A Trip Jinx isn’t going to scare them.”

Neither Evans nor Weasley had even looked at them. As if Cassian and his friends were beneath notice. What right did either of those twits have to treat them this way? Did they think they were better, too?

“He’s right,” Cassian says, cutting off the inevitable retort. “Tripping him doesn’t fix anything. We’ll find a solution and handle this ourselves.”

What they need is a way to knock Riddle off the ranks. That is the most important part. Once Cassian figures out how to accomplish that, then Riddle will see that he doesn’t belong here, that he isn’t worth the second-hand robes he wears or the library textbooks he borrows.

* * *

_ **Summer 1939** _

Summer passes in a blur of tutors and tip-toeing around the house, careful not to draw too much notice. Cassian catches his father talking about subjects that he shouldn’t ought to be listening to. 

But he’s curious, and he wants to know about the kinds of magic that exist in the books that are hidden in his father’s study. The types of dark magic his older cousins speak of. His mother tells him not to worry about such matters, that he needs to focus on his studies, on learning to become a proper Lestrange heir.

Cassian feels like he simultaneously knows and doesn’t know what that means. But it’s important to his parents, and so it’s important to him. He’ll do what’s expected of him because that’s what heirs are supposed to do.

* * *

**Second Year**

_**October 1939** _

Cassian is refreshed and ready for the year, and he will look for the right opportunities to squash Riddle. He won’t be rash about it; he’ll take his time like a true Slytherin. He tells the others to leave it to him, that he’ll come up with a plan. Lawrence expresses disbelief, but falls in line soon enough when Cassian offers to help him study for Transfiguration this year.

Therefore, when the note appears in his book bag, Cassian is prepared for the worst. 

The note has no name on it, but Cassian _ knows _ it must be Riddle. The only question is: what does Riddle want? A duel, or an attempt at starting a fight, maybe? Muggles have no magic, so they fight like animals, using their hands and feet. Cassian will happily blast Riddle into a wall if that’s the case.

After History of Magic, Cassian and Lawrence go into the classroom down and across the corridor. Cassian has his wand in his sleeve, and he is expecting to be attacked.

What Cassian does _ not _ expect is a classroom full of smoke and smell that assaults his senses, clogging his nostrils with thick, heavy vapour. Lawrence is also surprised, coughing and spluttering, waving his wand and crashing spells into the walls.

Cassian coughs and coughs and coughs, his head going dizzy. 

There is a crawling sensation building up in his sinuses, the start of a choking burn in the back of his throat, and it is the last thing he remembers before he passes out.

* * *

Cassian wakes in the Hospital Wing with a helpless scream trapped in his mouth, with bandages on his hands to prevent him from scratching at his own skin. 

His mother is there, mouth flat and pinched, watching him. Her hand settles on his forearm, but that knowledge does nothing to ease the awful pain, or cool the savage fire that rages in his chest and throat.

When Cassian can speak, he asks where his father is.

“He’s speaking with the Headmaster,” says his mother. “Do you know who did this to you?”

Cassian thinks of his father’s disappointment, of the sneer he will receive when his father learns that Cassian has once again been bested by that penniless Mudblood named Riddle.

He thinks of the inevitable lecture on how he needs to learn to fight his own battles. Fight them and _ win. _ Because no one has use for failures. 

Cassian won’t fail. He just needs more time.

“No,” Cassian says, voice raspy and rubbed raw. “I don’t know who.”

* * *

Some time later, the Headmaster comes to ask him questions.

Cassian gives nothing away, leaves his eyes downcast in front of Headmaster Dippet and Professor Slughorn, tells them that he does not know who left him and Lawrence Avery in the cupboard across from the History of Magic classroom.

It is the first time he’s ever lied to a professor.

It feels good. Like reclaiming a piece of power for himself. A measure of control over the situation.

Cassian’s lungs are healing as the potion begins to take effect. He breathes softly as the Headmaster leaves, as Professor Slughorn leaves. As his parents leave.

When he is once again alone, he closes his eyes and goes back to bed. Breathing feels better in solitude.

* * *

Cassian returns to the Great Hall the next day at lunch. His friends are waiting for him; they look up when he seats himself. Cassian serves himself a plate, keeps his hands steady, does not think of what it felt like to itch and burn and scream as the healing potion did its work.

Later, in the privacy of their dorm room, Cassian gathers his group in a loose circle.

“I have a plan now,” Cassian says. “I just need some time to put it all together.”

“That’s what you’ve been saying since the start of the year,” Lawrence says angrily. “I say we’re done with plans, Cassian. We should just corner them in the corridor and be done with it. See how Riddle likes a taste of his own medicine.” 

Cassian keeps his composure, glances around from face to face before settling on Lawrence. Lawrence doesn’t take kindly to being embarrassed, Cassian knows. He takes every slight as a personal offense of the highest degree, and Riddle has crossed several lines with his actions. Lawrence won’t want to settle for anything less than blood spilled.

“You’re not the one who ended up in the Hospital Wing,” Cassian says evenly. “This revenge is for _ me, _ and I will decide how I want to handle it.”

Lawrence stands up, fists clenched. He looks ready to throw something. “What is this plan of yours, then? How is it going to help us?”

Cassian opens his book bag and retrieves his quill and a roll of parchment. “I’m going to ask him to meet us in the courtyard, and then we’re going to have a talk. But before that, I’m going to need to prepare some things.”

“Like what?” Cyril asks, curious.

Cassian opens up the drawer of the side table next to his bed and pulls out another piece of parchment. He holds it up to the room, giving it a good shake. It’s Riddle’s note, the one that had asked him and Lawrence to meet in the classroom across from Binns’.

“Evidence,” says Cassian, grim. 

He is going to handle this on his own. He will take Riddle down _ on his own. _

And once the dust has settled, Cassian will be able to present the proud result of his top-notch winter exams to his parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's a wrap on this interlude!
> 
> ngl i had a hard time writing this perspective because 1) it's a new perspective and 2) i had to construct the rest of the slytherin second-years from scratch as well.


	13. interlude ii: harry potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry reflects on his relationship with Tom.

_October 1939_

Harry knows that everyone is worried about him.

Tom is worried about their friendship, about how they’ll act around each other going forwards. Harry doesn’t have answers for that. He doesn’t know what to say, or what to do, or how Tom can make it up to him. Maybe it’s just one of those things that takes time. Trust is a bridge that takes time to build.

And it’s not that Harry _ doesn’t _ trust Tom. Tom is the one person in the world that Harry knows will always be on his side. He has no doubt that if he asked Tom for something, Tom would find a way to get it for him, barriers be damned. Tom doesn’t give up, doesn’t let the often horrible world they live in push him around. 

They are orphans, they are Muggleborns at Hogwarts. They may get called names and have to work twice as hard for recognition, but Tom doesn’t let that bother him. 

Harry envies Tom’s composure, sometimes. 

It’s hard to not care about what others think. At his old orphanage—before Wool’s, before _ Tom_—Harry had tried to fit in with the other children. All he’d wanted was to play group games and be included. But the others hadn’t liked him, hadn’t wanted to include him. Harry was _ strange _ and _ odd _ and _ different. _

Harry learned very quickly that people didn’t like ‘different’. Both children and adults were willing to shun him whenever weird incidents happened. Older, bigger children were even more willing to pick on him.

Harry often wonders what it is about him that screams _ target. _

When he looks in the mirror, all he sees is himself. Messy hair, green eyes, knobbly knees. He’s short for his age, he knows. But the food at the orphanage is neither tasty nor plentiful, and the children will fight over what scraps remain whenever the caretakers aren’t looking.

It is only here at Hogwarts that Harry never feels hungry, that a healthy flush of colour exists in his cheeks even when the weather is mild.

Harry hadn’t enjoyed spending summer at Wool’s. 

And, unfortunately, part of the reason why he hadn’t enjoyed it was because of Tom.

Tom would say that the mean things he did at Wool’s were justified. That the other children deserved what they got.

Privately, Harry thinks it’s reached the point where Tom is cruel to others because he _ enjoys _ it, not because he wants to right a wrong. 

No one at Wool’s dares to call them names out in the open anymore because Tom’s made them all afraid. 

Harry never expected any of the other orphans to become his friends; he’s grateful enough to have Tom. But when Harry sees the distrust in the eyes of the other children, sees the way they leave him and Tom a large berth of space wherever they go—

It’s hard not to care.

* * *

Professor Dumbledore asks him and Tom to stay after class one Thursday afternoon. 

At first, Harry is anxious—is this about what Tom had done to Lestrange? But then he figures it must not be about that, because Tom had committed that particular crime with Septimus, and Septimus isn’t the one being asked to remain behind.

Still, Harry stews in a bad mood until the classroom is empty and it is only the three of them left. 

Professor Dumbledore waves his wand, and the door leading to the corridor shuts softly.

Harry and Tom settle into two chairs before the professor’s desk and wait for the man to speak.

The professor takes his time, seating himself slowly. He clasps his hands on his desk, regarding them both with a serious expression that does nothing to calm Harry’s nerves.

“I’ve heard some troubling things as of late,” Dumbledore says finally. “And I wished for you to know that should there be anything that concerns you or brings you worries, my door is always open.”

Harry resists the urge to gape. Concerns? Harry’s current concerns revolve around hiding Tom’s misdeeds from the faculty.

To Harry’s left, Tom says nothing, gives nothing away, not even when Harry glances in his direction.

“Are there any problems?” Dumbledore asks quietly. His bright blue eyes are, for some reason, fixed on Harry rather than Tom.

Unnerving. Harry doesn’t like it.

“No, sir,” Harry says. “There isn’t anything to talk about.”

Dumbledore grows pensive, hands shifting into a steepled position. “Then I must confess that I have noticed some tension between yourselves and the Slytherins in your year.”

Harry stiffens, then feels Tom place a hand on his knee, squeezing once before pulling back. Harry twitches in his chair, a belated result of the physical contact. Then he starts to worry again. Did Dumbledore catch that motion? 

It shouldn’t matter either way, but for some reason the idea of it makes him uneasy. Professor Dumbledore must know that he and Tom are close. It’s just that Tom’s actions hang over Harry like a black cloud, lightning ready to strike at the worst possible moment. Harry feels everything he does bears the mark of that guilt, that knowledge.

“I understand, sir,” Tom says, clear and confident. “It’s a difficult transition for Harry and I as Muggleborns. As we’re unfamiliar with the culture, I think it’s only to be expected that we stand out amongst the other students. Adelaide Greengrass has been teaching us the difference between Muggle and magical societies, so I think that will help ease some of the tensions between our houses.”

Professor Dumbledore seems surprised at the answer. He leans back in his chair, glancing at Tom over the frames of his half-moon glasses. “That is very wise of you, Mr. Riddle.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Dumbledore smiles kindly. “Then, if you have no concerns, I do think that concludes our conversation. But should you wish to revisit this, I will remind you once again that my office is always open to you.” 

Harry can’t help but feel that Dumbledore is speaking to him, not Tom. Surely Professor Dumbledore must know that Tom is not the type to ask for help.

“We’ll keep it in mind, sir,” Harry promises. “Thank you.”

He and Tom stand and pick up their bags. They leave the classroom together, and as they step down the hall, Harry watches Tom’s face shift to an irritated expression.

“I don’t think he suspects anything,” Harry says, once they’re far enough away. “I think he must have seen or heard the Slytherins calling us names.”

Tom shrugs a shoulder. “He has no proof. I’m not worried.”

Harry swallows down his doubt because he wants to avoid an argument. There have been enough of those lately. So Harry pushes his concerns down, tucks them away for when he can think about them in the privacy of his bed, curtains drawn shut. If he hides them well enough, maybe he can forget about them.

* * *

Septimus and Annalise worry about him and Tom, but they seem to fuss over him in particular. They worry about the word ‘Mudblood’ being thrown his way, about the potential for disaster in the corridors. Harry tells them he’s fine, that he can handle himself, but truthfully part of him is glad they insist on accompanying him and Tom everywhere.

In Charms class, Septimus had even offered to walk to the loo with him, an offer that had Harry blushing up to his roots before he’d hastily turned it down.

Tom doesn’t comment one way or another about this behaviour. Which makes sense, Harry supposes. Tom had asked Septimus to join the Gryffindor Quidditch team specifically to make sure Harry never gets hit by Bludgers. As if Harry needs protectors following him around wherever he goes.

But it does feel nice that their friends care so much, even if it is a little ridiculous and over the top. 

Harry loves their group. He loves the feeling of being included and getting excited over the same things together. He likes Annalise’s ability to see the bright side of every situation, and how Septimus can always break a problem down into its smaller parts. He likes Adelaide’s composure, how she speaks with great care and deliberation.

Harry thinks that, with time, Tom might come to admire these traits as well.

* * *

Annalise has begun reading romance novels. During breakfast, during lunch. After they finish their studies in the afternoons, and even late into the evenings, according to her dormmates.

At first, she seems embarrassed to have the books at all, covering the titles with her hand, but a few days pass without anyone’s commentary, and eventually she holds them out in the open.

Harry doesn’t know what to make of it. But as long as she’s not expecting him to talk to her about it, it’s not really a bother.

It is only a day or so after he thinks this that she starts up a conversation.

“Do you believe in soulmates?” Annalise asks the table at large. The book in her hands reads ‘Destiny’s Fate’. The title is a flowing gold script that sits above an artistic depiction of a witch in frilly blue dress robes.

“My parents never talk about being each other’s soulmates,” Septimus says with a shrug. “I dunno if that makes it real or not, though.”

Annalise’s face falls a bit. Disappointed by the answer, likely. “How did they meet?” Annalise asks, hopeful. “Was it at Hogwarts?”

“I don’t think so,” Septimus says. “I’m not sure. I can ask them over the winter holidays, if you want.”

“Maybe.” Annalise bites down on her lip, fiddles with her hair, then turns her attention to Harry. “What about you, Harry? What do you think?”

Harry doesn’t like being put on the spot. “Um,” he says. “I don’t really think about that sort of thing, I suppose.”

“And you, Tom?”

Tom flicks his dark eyes up at her. “If you believe in that sort of thing,” he says, dismissive. “It sounds rather silly, don’t you think?”

Harry drifts away from the conversation after hearing that. He scratches at his parchment, flips a few pages in the Herbology textbook he shares with Tom. He turns Tom’s words over in his head a few times.

It takes Harry a while to pinpoint why Tom’s off-handed comment bothers him so much—Tom has always said that the two of them were meant to meet. That they are two of the same kind and that’s why they’d become such good friends. 

Harry likes to believe it, that somehow fate has given him the perfect friend in the form of Tom Riddle. Tom, who doesn’t mind his flaws and mistakes. Tom, who supports him through everything. He and Tom are the best of friends, a special kind of friends. 

They certainly aren’t _ soulmates, _ so Tom’s dismissal of the concept is a stupid thing to be annoyed by and an even worse thing to be upset over.

Annalise seems disheartened by the poor response to her conversation starter, but Harry doesn’t have the will to try and engage in it further. An odd silence falls over the table, saved only by Septimus, who asks about their latest Potions assignment, thoroughly changing the subject.

* * *

Harry worries a lot about everyone, but he mostly worries about Tom. 

People talk a lot about Tom. Their professors, their classmates. Everyone is full of praise and admiration for Tom’s smarts and talents. All of that is good. It’s part of the reason why Tom loves Hogwarts so much.

But from the darker corners of Hogwarts come the insults and the disgusted looks that are directed their way.

Harry knows that insults hurt. He has learned this repeatedly, and he knows that even if Tom acts like nothing is wrong, even if Tom _ says _ he doesn’t let those things bother him, that doesn’t mean it’s true. Tom might put up a good front, but that’s all it is: a front.

Harry had tried that method before. Pretending like he didn’t care. Shutting himself down inside and blocking everyone out. But then he’d felt empty and lonely all the time, and that somehow felt worse than just having a good cry in his bed whenever the name-calling got to him.

So Harry knows what Tom had gone through on his own at Wool’s. He understands why Tom wants to lash out, to fight back. 

It’s just the incident with Lestrange is the first time that Tom’s ever fought back specifically for _ him. _

And Tom had gone too far with it, had lied about it, had decided to be cruel in a way that Harry didn’t approve of. 

Tom _ always _ does what he wants, when he wants. Harry’s never been able to curb Tom’s behaviour fully. Not at Wool’s, not at Hogwarts. Tom sweeps through people like a very precise hurricane, devastating everything in his chosen path.

Harry doesn’t doubt that Tom can do whatever he sets his mind to. If Tom really wanted, he could beat those Slytherin boys in a duel even though Adelaide tells them Pureblood heirs have tutors to teach them spellwork beyond the Hogwarts curriculum. The problem is not with Tom’s capabilities, or even with whether Tom gets away with this.

The real problem with Tom is that Tom always has to be right.

Tom likes to be in charge, likes to be the one telling people what to do. Tom likes to tell Harry that they’re equals, that Harry has the potential to be just as great as he is.

The small, lonely version of Harry Evans that exists in Harry’s head adores these words, shamefully eager for attention from the one person in the world he trusts to never abandon him.

Tom is his best friend, his first friend. Harry will gladly make Tom his priority in any situation. 

But Tom has grand plans and impressive aspirations; Harry just likes being himself. Harry likes having friends who like him for who he is. He doesn’t need more than what he has right now, and even if he did, he would feel selfish for asking after it.

So on Halloween, on his birthday, Harry waits in the Great Hall with Annalise. The empty space next to him feels more poignant than usual, and Harry has trouble focusing on the excitement of the holiday knowing that potentially dangerous things are happening just outside the castle walls.

* * *

“What happened?” Harry asks, much later, after the Halloween feast is over and the four of them have stepped outside into the gloomy autumn weather. Tom had been tight-lipped all throughout supper, which had not bode well for the result of the meeting.

Septimus is also quiet, more subdued than usual as he glances quickly at Tom, waiting for Tom to speak.

“They want to blackmail me,” Tom says shortly.

“With what?” Harry asks, incredulous.

Septimus frowns and walks off towards the lake. After a second, Annalise follows him, leaving Harry and Tom alone together.

“I took all the necessary precautions,” Tom says. “I never signed the note. I didn’t use my usual handwriting. I made sure that it couldn’t be copied, like with our study guides. I drew the runes myself.”

“Then they have nothing, right?”

“Septimus says the note could have magical traces on it because I used runes.”

Harry sucks in a breath. “And is that enough proof? Could you get into trouble for that?”

“I don’t know,” Tom admits, frustrated. He scowls at the sky, then at his shoes, then at the forest to their right. “I may ask Adelaide what she thinks. But this explains why none of them said anything to the Headmaster.”

“They haven’t told their parents, either,” Harry says, realizing.

“Yes. So the girls ought to be safe for now.”

Though this is good news, Harry doesn’t relax. “But what do they want, then? What does Lestrange want?”

Tom’s expression turns pained. “He wants me to fail the next set of exams. And the year end exams, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Fail them?” Harry repeats, incredulous. “Tom, _ no one _ will believe that—”

“Not fail like that,” Tom says through gritted teeth. “Just… they want me off the ranks. The top ones, at any rate.”

Harry feels anger rising in him on Tom’s behalf. “That’s ridiculous! Do they really care so much about that sort of thing? They know that you’re smarter than them. They’re just jealous of you. None of them would be able to beat you fairly, so now they’re resorting to dirty tricks.”

Tom smiles, rueful, and it’s a welcome sight. “Thank you, Harry.”

“So what are we going to do?” Harry asks. “Are we going to steal the note back?”

Tom fiddles with the cuffs of his shirt before pulling his hands back to his sides, relaxing his shoulders. He doesn’t look at Harry as he says, “Lestrange told me that if I agreed to underperform, he and his friends would leave all of us alone.”

Harry doesn’t get it. “And?”

Tom arches a brow. “And? Isn’t that what you want?”

Harry’s mouth drops open. “No? Tom! I don’t want you to give up your marks for this. You really don’t have to do that.” He tugs at Tom’s arm, pulling it free so he can grab Tom’s hand with his own. “We’ll figure it out together, okay? We’ll get the note back.”

Tom exhales loudly. “They didn’t have the note with them today. I’ve asked to see it. So we’ll be meeting a second time, before the first Quidditch match on Saturday.”

“That’s only a few days,” Harry says. “Will you have a plan by then?”

“I’ll have to, or this will only get more difficult.”

Harry gives Tom’s hand a squeeze. “I’m sure the rest will agree. No one would want you to do badly on your exams just to protect us.”

Tom squints, then shrugs. His head dips a bit as he glances over at Septimus and Annalise, who are standing by the lake. “I thought the point of all this was to prove that I can care about them.”

“Caring goes both ways,” Harry tells him. “Keeping the Slytherins away isn’t worth you losing your standing. We’ll figure it out, Tom. No matter what it takes.”

Tom smiles again, just a small tilt to the corner of his mouth, lopsided and charming. Harry feels warm inside and out, pleased that Tom is really trying, pleased that he’s managed to reassure Tom that things will turn out alright.

“No more of that today,” Tom decides. “It’s your birthday. Let’s celebrate.”

They go back to the Gryffindor Common Room and play cards for the rest of the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it'll be a bit longer before the next chapter is out; i've planned to hash out some more chapters on my other WIPs before returning to this one. comments and encouragement are appreciated!


	14. match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for Hogwarts' first Quidditch match of the term.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so while i was working on this chapter, i realized that harry pov is not working as well as i had anticipated. therefore a few changes have been made to the order of the chapters.
> 
> i removed tom's shorter interlude and combined it with the chapter before cassian's, and now harry's pov chapter will be an interlude instead.
> 
> content wise, nothing has changed. just the order was moved around, and we have now returned to tom's pov for the time being!

_November 1939_

Unfortunately for them all, Tom and Harry soon learn that magical signatures can be traced through runes. And worse yet, the timing of the next meeting means that both Harry and Septimus will be occupied with preparing for the Quidditch match, leaving no one available to go with Tom.

At least, no one who ought to be going.

Annalise protests frequently, but everyone is in agreement that neither she nor Adelaide should be publicly associating with Tom at the moment.

Tom is perfectly fine with going alone. He knows he can handle it.

Harry disagrees, and he disagrees so vehemently that he insists Tom take someone else with him, even if it’s only to have a witness.

They argue over it for a while, but time slips by, relentless, leaving little room for a prolonged debate. Eventually, once it becomes obvious that Harry is not going to back down, Tom reluctantly concedes to the company one other person.

So Tom pulls Leo Morden out of the common room and walks them up and down a few different staircases until he’s reasonably sure they won’t be overheard.

Then Tom relates, as vaguely as he can, exactly what the problem is, and what he’s asking Leo to do. He isn’t happy about implicating himself in Lestrange’s accident, but Leo is the only outsider he trusts enough to take with him.

“I don’t know,” Leo says, once Tom’s explanation is done. “This seems like a bad idea.”

“I wouldn’t be asking you to get involved if I didn’t think it was important,” Tom says. “It’s just that Harry believes it’ll be dangerous if I go on my own.” Tom shrugs and slouches back against the railing behind him. If he plays this off as a minor inconvenience, maybe Leo will be more inclined to say yes.

Leo purses his lips. “Yeah. They’ve been bothering you in the corridors.”

Tom wonders if the insults on blood status bother Leo, too, even though Leo isn’t the target of them. “They have,” Tom says, changing tactics. “And they’ve said that they won’t stop unless I give in.”

“You started it,” Leo says flatly. “Maybe if you hadn’t, there wouldn’t be any trouble at all.”

Tom flares with irritation. “No, _ they’re _ the ones who started it. They went after Harry in the corridors last year, just before summer. Harry didn’t want to say anything about it because he’s a nice person, but if I hadn’t tried to do something about it, then it only would have gotten worse.”

Leo scrunches his face up like he’s thinking it over, and Tom can taste success in the air.

“You don’t have to agree with what’s going on,” Tom says quickly. “You just have to go with me and even out the numbers.”

“And keep my mouth shut,” Leo adds.

Tom nods, careful to keep his expression serious. Truthfully, Leo and Francesca aren’t really part of his group. They study together from time to time, or sit together at meals, but that’s the extent of their friendliness. Leo and Francesca aren’t privy to the plots and things Tom has going on. 

In fact, Tom realizes that he doesn’t know that much about Leo and Francesca at all. It’s especially strange because Leo shares a dorm with him. Surely they ought to be more familiar with each other? 

Tom had thought Leo shy at first, but that doesn’t line up with what Tom has witnessed in class and in the common room. Leo _ does _ talk, just not about himself. Leo never talks much about himself, or his family, or anything personal. 

Leo sighs. “If I don’t go, someone will get hurt. That’s what you’re saying. And I believe it, that it’ll probably happen.”

“So will you go?” Tom asks.

“Alright,” Leo says. “But just this once. And only as long as this isn’t about to lead to anything else.”

“It won’t,” Tom says. “I’ll make sure of it.” Tom has busied himself with learning a new spell—the Summoning Charm—and brushing up on his knowledge of offensive spells.

Leo shakes his head. “You can convince me once it’s done.”

Conversation concluded, they walk back to the common room together.

Tom has the feeling that Leo will tell Francesca all about his problems with the Slytherins. The two of them seem like close friends, closer than they are with the rest of their house. 

Maybe Francesca and Leo _ would _ like to have more friends, but they are hesitant to integrate themselves into an existing group. Tom decides to put some more effort into befriending them. Even though Leo and Francesca aren’t very close with their group just yet, it’ll be useful for him to have more people around for future situations where Harry and Septimus aren’t able to act as his seconds. 

As an added bonus, Harry will like it if Tom is kinder to their fellow housemates, regardless of how self-serving his true motives are.

* * *

On the day of the Quidditch match, Tom wakes early without meaning to. Another nightmare echoes in his head, and there is a hollow feeling lodged in his stomach. He’s not used to waking from his own nightmares; usually he wakes because Harry is having them. Perturbed, Tom sits up and tries to calm his unsettled heart. He kicks his blankets off, exposing his pyjama-clad legs to the cool air.

After a few moments of sitting, Tom rises from his bed and moves to the window. The air here is even cooler, less oppressive, and he can watch as the sun rises. The rays of sunlight cast a warm glow over the grounds. Tom stretches his legs out across the ledge and lets his mind go blank, shoving out the memories of fire and darkness.

Not long after that, a familiar noise catches his attention. Tom turns to see that Harry is also awake now, and is moving towards the window. Tom pulls his legs up to make space, and Harry climbs onto the ledge despite the chilly surface. Their legs mingle in the space between. His leg, Harry’s leg, his other leg, then Harry’s other leg.

“Are you worried?” Harry whispers.

“No,” Tom says, returning his gaze to the window. “Are you?”

“Not about Quidditch.”

Tom nudges at Harry’s leg with his knee. “Don’t be. How many times have I told you not to worry about me?”

“Doesn’t stop me from doing it,” Harry points out.

Tom smiles at that, his chest suffused with fondness. He’s pleased that Harry cares enough to be a bother. Tom draws strength from Harry’s faith in him. Faith in them both, as a pair. 

Harry smiles back, but it’s fainter than usual, watered down by anxiety.

If only Harry could be the one to go with him today. Harry would be less worried if they were facing the Slytherins together. He would see that Tom is capable of holding his own against other wizards and that there’s nothing to be concerned about.

They go back to sitting quietly. It occurs to Tom that Harry must be feeling some nerves as well, to be awake at this hour. Tom bumps his knee against Harry’s leg for the second time, and when Harry looks up, Tom fixes him with a stare in an attempt to convey the feelings he can’t put into words. 

“If today fails,” Tom says slowly, “then I’ll come up with another solution.”

“One that doesn’t involve giving in?” Harry asks.

Tom’s eyes narrow. “Of course not. I’m not going to let them win.” Though he’s glad that Harry hadn’t expected him to cave to the blackmail, he’s still upset that Lestrange is threatening his title at all.

“We won’t,” Harry promises, full of conviction.

Tom feels the final vague memory of his nightmare slip away, the darkness vanquished by Harry’s calming presence. Even if today goes poorly, he and Harry will stand together against the world, united.

* * *

Breakfast is a tense affair. Harry pushes his eggs around on his plate; Tom has to prompt him into eating more than once. The glass of water Tom poured out is untouched save for a few nervous sips.

Harry’s right leg is bouncing up and down. Tom can feel the subtle shift of Harry’s trousers brushing against his.

“When are you leaving?” Harry asks. 

“Soon,” Tom replies. “Don’t worry, Harry. Focus on doing well during today’s match.”

Harry grimaces and resumes poking at his plate. “Wish I could go with you. I don’t trust them.”

“Neither do I,” Tom says. “Which is why I’ve prepared.” 

The Summoning Charm is a fifth-year spell. Tom’s nearly certain that the Slytherins won’t be expecting him to use it. It’s just a matter of being able to pull it off. He hadn’t had much time to practice given the short deadline, but he has faith in his abilities. 

Septimus pats Harry on the back. “We’re playing Slytherin today. Just imagine how they’ll be feeling once we beat them soundly into the ground.”

Harry nods at that, a look of determination stealing over him.

“You’ll both win the game, Harry,” Annalise says brightly. “And you’ll catch the Snitch.”

Tom reaches under the table to grab Harry’s left hand, grasping tight with his fingers. Harry must know that his faith is the most important, that no one will ever support Harry more than he does.

“Sure,” Harry says. He scoops at his eggs with more vigour. “Septimus and I will flatten them.” He glances at Tom out of the corner of his eye and attempts another smile. This smile, Tom is pleased to note, is full of fire.

* * *

“So your plan is to just summon the note away with magic?” Leo asks.

“Yes,” Tom says. He doesn’t like Leo’s doubtful tone. “It’s a very advanced spell, you know. Fifth-year level, in fact.”

They are now headed out of the castle. Soon they will meet Lestrange and his friends in the courtyard. Leo slouches and tugs his scarf up to shield his face from the windy weather.

“Wonder why they care so much about the marks,” Leo comments. “Maybe their parents are harping on about them.”

“They think they deserve to have everything,” Tom responds easily. “They have nobility and money on their side. They think us Muggleborns are beneath them. They don’t understand how I’ve beaten them, so they’re resorting to unfair tactics.”

Leo tugs at his scarf again. “I’m not a Muggleborn,” Leo says quietly. “My dad's a Pureblood.”

“Your surname’s Muggle.”

The side of Leo’s mouth slides downwards. “They never married. My ma married someone else later. I only got letters from my birth dad once I started Hogwarts.” Leo shoves his hands into his pockets. “He asks after my marks. All my ma wants to hear is that I’m doing well. She doesn’t mind too much about the numbers.”

Interesting. It does make sense given what Tom’s seen with the Greengrass sisters. Tom tucks the information away for later. They’re nearly at their destination now; Tom wants his mind free of useless thoughts so he can focus his attention on Lestrange. With some effort, he forces his body to relax.

There are three Slytherins lounging around one of the archways. Lestrange pulls away from his casual position against the stone arc when he sees Tom draw near. Mulciber and Avery are with him. Three against two isn’t so bad, Tom thinks. They’d be foolish to try anything.

“Riddle,” says Lestrange. He’s sneering in an attempt to be intimidating, but Tom isn’t afraid of him, not one bit.

“Lestrange.” Tom projects confidence, gives nothing away. He may not have an advantage right now, but he soon will. “Come to make your deal with the devil?”

Lestrange frowns at Tom’s unbothered airs. “I have the note with me.”

“Let’s see it, then.” Tom holds out a hand, makes an impatient motion.

“Smug bastard,” snaps Mulciber. “Won’t be so smug if we take this to the Headmaster, will you?”

Tom raises his brows. “Would you? That’s not what you want, is it? Because then you’d know that I _ beat _ you.” Tom bares his teeth in a sharp smile before he adds, “You’ll know that you had to go calling for your rich fathers to save you from the nasty, scary Mudblood.”

Based on the way Lestrange jerks forward a step, his face reddening with anger, Tom thinks that Leo’s insight might have more worth than he’d originally realized.

_ “Enough,” _ Avery says. “Show him the note, Cassian. Then we’re leaving.”

Lestrange glares at Avery, much to Tom’s pleasure. Dissension amongst the ranks? Avery’s comment undermines Lestrange’s position as the leader of this meeting.

Harry would never have spoken up against Tom like that in such a public manner, not in front of enemies. Harry would have kept his disagreement quiet for private discussion later on. Tom feels smug knowing that he and Harry are far above these three.

“Fine,” says Lestrange. “I have it here.”

Tom’s wand is strapped to his forearm underneath his robes. He is only a motion away from sliding the stick of yew into his hand. Next to him, Leo plays the role of silent witness, just as Tom had intended for him to be. 

In his head, Tom repeats the incantation and pictures the wand motion. _ Accio. _

Lestrange reaches into his robes and withdraws the folded piece of parchment Tom had given him. 

Tom remembers what the note looks like: his falsified handwriting and the rune etched on the back. He needs to picture it clearly and utilize the full force of his will in retrieving it.

His wand snaps into his hand; Tom aims and fires.

“_Accio _ parchment!”

* * *

Everyone is cheering, waving their handmade banners and screaming at the top of their lungs. All of Gryffindor is howling approval, and some of the students are chanting the names of the players. Tom squints down at the pitch. The Gryffindor team has hoisted Harry up on their shoulders.

Harry had caught the Snitch. Gryffindor had won by two-hundred and thirty points. It’s the team’s best win ever since Tom and Harry have come to Hogwarts.

“Let’s go,” Tom says brusquely to Annalise, who is sitting next to him.

Leo rises to walk with them, his steps slow. Tom isn’t sure if Leo is mad at him or not, but he supposes he’ll find out sooner or later. What matters to Tom right now is getting to where Harry is as fast as possible.

It will be some time before their group will be alone for Harry to hear the full story. Louisa had promised the Gryffindor team a proper celebration if they won this first match, butterbeer for everyone, and after that party they’ll be expected for lunch in the Great Hall. 

Unfortunately for Tom, the rush of people swarming to reach the pitch delays his descent. By the time his feet hit the ground, the Gryffindor team has already moved towards the locker rooms. Tom can spot Septimus and Harry’s smaller forms in the distance, nearly boxed in by their larger teammates.

Not for the first time, Tom feels a surge of jealousy that Septimus is the one who gets to play Quidditch with Harry. It’s not fair, he thinks, that Septimus has more talent at the one skill Tom lacks.

But Septimus _ has _ put in a lot of effort to train himself up to Louisa’s standards. It’s a lot of effort that most people probably don’t notice because Septimus has always been a hard worker, has always been eager to lend a hand to those who ask for it.

Maybe it comes with the territory of having so many older siblings. It seems to Tom that Septimus grew up in a household where someone would offer help before anyone needed to ask for it.

“We’ll catch them once they’re out,” says Annalise, interrupting Tom’s inner monologue.

Tom doesn’t snap at her, but it’s a near thing. A glance around reveals that Leo must have left for the castle in the time it took Tom to stand around, doing nothing.

“Where’s Adelaide?” Tom asks. “Let’s find her first.” The sooner everyone is gathered, the sooner today will be over and done with.

* * *

After locating Adelaide in the gaggle of Ravenclaws, Tom leads both girls towards the castle while Annalise tells her sister about Tom’s latest altercation. Tom tunes it out, forces Annalise’s voice into background noise. He has his eyes peeled for Harry.

There. Harry and Septimus lagging a pace or so behind Penny Johnson.

Annalise shouts for them, waving her arm in the air, bouncing on the tips of her toes. She stops only to glance at her sister, who makes a gesture for Annalise to calm down. 

Harry slows in place, pivoting towards the sound of his name. His eyes widen when he spots them.

Tom keeps walking, the sooner to reunite with Harry and confirm that Harry is unharmed from the match. No Bludgers had made contact, but Harry had taken a tumble at the end while catching the Snitch.

Their two groups converge some distance away from the castle, merging into one.

“Did you manage it?” Septimus asks immediately. 

Tom has to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth to answer. “No,” he says. The word tastes bitter. 

Harry’s face falls. Tom pulls near and takes Harry by the arm with a light touch; he can feel Harry relax at the physical contact. Good. Tom will siphon away all of Harry’s worries, and they will continue to walk like nothing is the matter.

“They got into a fight,” Annalise adds helpfully. “But it’s alright, Harry. No one got hurt this time.”

That statement is not as consoling as she likely intended it to be. Harry can’t disguise his slight flinch, not when Tom is right next to him. Tom scowls at Annalise for being so blunt.

“What happened?” Harry demands. He’s looking at Tom as he says it.

Tom doesn’t want to say. The feeling of failure has dug sharp claws into him, and he doesn’t want to talk about it. Not in front of all the rest. He wishes it was just him and Harry walking back to the castle. He’s already had to relay the story to Annalise; he has no desire to do it again so soon.

“Stalemate,” Adelaide says. “They didn’t want to push too far in case they don’t get what they want.”

They reach the stone archway that leads into the castle, and Tom is grateful for the reprieve. “No more talk of this until later,” Tom warns. “I won’t have it getting out, understood?”

Everyone choruses a low murmur of agreement as they pass through and into a corridor. Tom squashes down on his anger and pulls his face into a neutral expression.

“Congratulations on the match,” Annalise says into the resulting silence. “You both flew very well.”

“Thanks,” Septimus says, but it lacks enthusiasm.

They hit a junction where the corridor splits off into two directions, and so Adelaide bids them farewell and leaves for her common room, leaving the remaining Gryffindors to attend the Quidditch party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter should be out a little sooner. however, i'm also returning to my part-time job starting on monday, which means less time for writing. we'll see how this affects my updates going forward :(


	15. debrief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events at Hogwarts have finally started to wind down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> read the A/N on the previous chapter if you don't know why/did not notice the chapter count changed ✌🏼

Once the Quidditch celebrations have completed and lunch is done with, the four Gryffindors manage to slip away. Tom leads them to their usual classroom, where they find Adelaide waiting for them.

Upon hearing the door creak, Adelaide pauses mid-step and turns around. 

“Have you told them yet?”

Tom shuts the door behind himself before speaking, keeping his tone perfunctory. “Only three of them were there. Lestrange, Avery, and Mulciber. I tried to summon the note using _ Accio, _ but it didn’t work properly and the note dropped halfway. Everyone drew their wands after that. One of them—Mulciber—tried to hex Leo, but he missed. So I hit him with the Body-Bind Curse.”

“And then?” Harry asks.

“We called the fight off,” Tom says, allowing some superiority to leak into his voice. “Because it was obvious they wouldn’t be able to best me. But they _ did _ have the note, and Lestrange threatened to leave right then and tell the Headmaster if I didn’t give him what he wanted.” 

Septimus rubs his hands on his trousers, then cracks his knuckles. “Did you?”

Tom doesn’t like the accusing edge to the question. He folds his arms over his chest as he frowns at Septimus. “I told them I would, since it’s what they wanted to hear. Leo and I left after that, and there was no more trouble. I assume they must have reversed the curse on Mulciber, as I saw him in the stands later on.”

“You tried your best,” Annalise says. “There was nothing else you could have done.”

But there _ are. _ Tom can imagine all the different ways that today could have gone if only he’d done this thing or that thing instead. If only he’d had more control over the situation. If only Lestrange wasn’t allergic to Sleeping Draughts. If only the meeting had been on a different day.

Tom whirls away from the group and kicks at one of the student desks. 

“They’re a bunch of idiots,” Tom says, sneering. “They can’t even aim right, yet they think they’re better than I am.” Tom’s foot collides with the leg of the desk a second time as he adds, “They think they’re better than all of us. But they’re _ not. _”

“We’ll think of something else,” Septimus says. “Don’t worry, Tom. We won’t let them blackmail you.”

Tom snaps his head up. Suddenly he can’t stand the sight of Septimus, calm and composed, like _ he _ has the situation under control while Tom shoves furniture around like a petulant child. “I _ know _ that. I will think of something else.”

“You will,” Harry says. “And we’ll help you with whatever it is.”

“Today was the best opportunity to get it back,” Tom mutters. He shoves the desk aside with both hands just because he can. The desk knocks into a chair with a loud screech. Tom stares at the desk in consternation before turning back to the group. “If only it had been you with me, Harry, then I could have done it.”

Harry doesn’t answer, which sours Tom’s mood even more. If it had been any other day, Harry would have come with him. Or if _ Tom _ had been the one to play Quidditch, then the Slytherins would have been forced to pick a different meeting time. As it is right now, Tom has a lot of anger and nothing to take it out on.

“I doubt they’ll bring the note with them again after today,” Tom says irritably, when no one else speaks. “We won’t be getting another chance at it in public because I was outnumbered. What a total waste of a day.”

“It’s no one’s fault,” Septimus retorts. “And weren’t you the one who wanted to go by yourself, anyways? Not to mention Leo nearly got hexed for his troubles.”

Tom glares, but part of him is glad, is eager for the chance to pick an argument if only to let out some of the rage that’s been stewing in his gut. “That’s not _ my _ fault, either! I’m the one trying to protect us all, in case you haven’t noticed. I’m the only one who’s been doing anything!”

“What’s done is done,” Adelaide says loudly. “There’s nothing to be gained by dwelling on it.”

“Septimus seems to think so,” Tom spits out. “So why don’t we let him have at it, if he has so much to say?”

“Stop it, Tom,” says Harry. “Stop it.”

Tom’s gaze locks with Harry’s. The room falls silent while Harry stares Tom down, and Tom is inexplicably reminded of their most recent summer at Wool’s. Harry had said similar things when Tom had gone frightening the other orphans, only Tom hadn’t cared much then. 

The orphans at Wool’s are inconsequential; they don’t matter in the grand scheme of Tom’s life. Putting those children in their place is only just. They need to understand that he and Harry are superior to them and are therefore not to be pushed around. Tom won’t allow a repeat of what’s happened to him in the past, what’s happened in _ Harry’s _ past. 

If he and Harry cannot be accepted, then they will be feared.

Septimus may think he does a better job of looking out for Harry than Tom does, but he’s wrong. Tom has been protecting Harry from the very beginning, and there is nothing he won’t do to keep Harry safe. Septimus will fall in line, or else Tom will force him to.

Harry stands up and places a hand on Tom’s arm. The sudden touch yanks Tom out of his head, and then his awareness is consumed by Harry’s presence. Dazed, Tom wonders if Harry is draining the anger out of him. Is it like how he drains the anxiety out of Harry? It would make sense for them to balance each other out like that. 

“Why don’t we just break into their common room and steal it?”

Tom turns, startled, to look at Annalise. 

“Steal it?” asks Harry.

Annalise blinks at the sudden attention. “Adelaide comes into ours all the time, so I don’t see why we couldn’t find a way into theirs.”

“Adelaide visits with permission,” Tom says pointedly. “It’s not so easy as entering without the password and without being recognized.”

“It’s a decent idea,” Septimus says. “It just needs to be expanded. How could we enter without being noticed? Could we summon the note from their dorm straight into the common room?”

Tom’s lip curls, and he wonders if Septimus is only being contrary for the sake of it.

“He’ll have it locked up,” Adelaide says. “That’s what I would do. Just because we’re too young to cast our own protective charms doesn’t mean he’ll leave it lying around. I’d say it’ll be in a trunk or a box.”

So even if they do get into the Slytherin common room, then they’ll need to dismantle whatever the note is protected by. And to do that will require more knowledge than they currently have.

However, Tom _ had _ cast a protective spell on their study guide. An older student had shown him how to draw the runes and activate them. So it’s not impossible for him to be able to do such magic; the main problem is that he doesn’t know how, and he is currently disinclined to seek out more help.

“There’s a spell for unlocking that works on most basic locking charms,” Septimus says. “It’s in our textbook. Maybe that would work?”

“We don’t even know what trunk he has,” Tom says. “It could be a fancier, more expensive one.”

One with complex charms and spells that will be well beyond Tom’s abilities. Even after days of practice, he had been unable to successfully complete the Summoning Charm. What hope would any of them have against a locked and warded trunk? 

When he and Harry had purchased their school trunks, Tom had made note of the different types of protections on them. He has no idea where to begin with unlocking any of it.

“There’s a solution here somewhere,” Annalise says. “It’ll come to us if we keep thinking.”

Tom doesn’t believe so. They can think as long as they like, but if the plan is to steal the note back, then their options are limited. Either they do it themselves, or...

“We have someone else do it,” Harry says. “We ask someone who is a Slytherin to do it for us.”

“Like who?” Septimus asks, incredulous. “None of them will even talk to us because we’re Gryffindors. And they certainly won’t agree to help if it’ll link them to the incident.”

The group goes quiet. 

_ The incident. _ It sounds dangerously close to pointing fingers, and Tom doesn’t like that.

Tom yanks a chair out from behind a desk and collapses into it, crossing his arms. This is enough to reanimate the rest: Adelaide resumes her previous pacing while Annalise hops up onto a desk, swinging her legs out.

Septimus looks at Harry, but Harry only shrugs in response.

“If we are to ask someone else,” Tom says reluctantly, “then it needs to be an older student. Someone who can break protective charms and won’t care for the squabbles of the younger years.”

“An older student,” Annalise repeats. “In Slytherin.” Then she sits up, her spine straightening. “Oh! Adelaide, isn’t Bertrand’s sister in Slytherin? Lydia? She’s in her fifth—no, wait… sixth! She’s in her sixth year this term. She would be able to, wouldn’t she?”

“She is,” Adelaide says, after a pause. “In sixth. But I don’t know if she would agree to help.”

“But you could ask, couldn’t you? You could ask Bertrand what he thinks.”

All eyes now rest on Adelaide, who seems distinctly uncomfortable.

“If his sister agrees,” Tom says to her, “then none of us need to get involved at all. They won’t have any proof of anything, and they won’t be able to blame any of us.”

“If you don’t want to, you don’t have to,” Harry adds. “We wouldn’t make you ask.”

“I dislike the idea of owing him any favours,” Adelaide says at last, sounding irritated.

Tom doesn’t know enough about Nott to figure out what favours he’d ask for. Even at Slug Club meetings, Nott mostly keeps to himself. Unfortunately, Tom had dismissed him as inconsequential as a result of that.

This is the second time that Tom has been confronted with a lack of information about his classmates. He might understand the important players in the school—their group of friends, the professors, and the Slytherins—but it is now occurring to him that he needs to expand his horizons if he’s to rise above the _ entire _ school. 

Having a reputation isn’t enough. Tom needs hold of the threads that lead all over Hogwarts so he can pull them at will.

“I’ll cover whatever he asks for,” Tom says, though the idea of _ owing _ others anything further stirs something dark and nameless in his chest. He has made enough deals lately. He wants to start _ taking _ what he deserves, instead. “I’ll work out an agreement with Nott,” he adds.

“No, I’ll do it.” Adelaide lifts her chin up, her eyes sparking defiance. “I don’t need any help. Give me some time, and I will handle it.”

There is a general chorus of agreement from the others. Harry shuffles over and nudges Tom with his shoulder, and so Tom keeps his mouth firmly shut.

* * *

They see very little of Adelaide for the next few days. The others make no comment; they seem convinced the situation is well in hand. Despite having spent extensive amounts of time around Adelaide, Tom is less confident. 

Placing his trust in Adelaide over something so vital leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Tom had much preferred to be directly involved in all aspects of the problem, even if things had not been going according to plan. 

There are many other reasons why this specific issue bothers him, not in the least because Tom knows leaders are supposed to be able to delegate tasks. It’s mostly that this particular task comes on the heels of two successive _ failures. _ Tom does not abide failure. Not in himself, not in those he seeks to surround himself with. 

Failure earns nothing worth keeping. Not lessons learned, not better opportunities. A brilliant mind foresees all, plans for every contingency. Infallibility walks hand in hand with true powers—it leads to safety, security, and self-assured success.

Tom feels none of that now. The lack of control is driving him mad. At Wool’s, everything is contained. Tom knows how to use fear as a tool there. He knows how to hide evidence from the various caretakers. Other orphans do not bother Tom Riddle and Harry Evans because retribution will be swift and painful.

Here at Hogwarts, he has to start again. He has to show everyone that he is, in all ways, superior. Tom had thought his marks to be proof enough, but clearly that isn’t the case. He is sure that their other classmates must also think less of him because of his perceived blood status—the Slytherins are the only ones bold enough to say such insults aloud.

_ Mudblood. _

He is not anything like a Muggle or a Muggleborn. He is not like the weaklings at Wool’s. He is a _ wizard, _ one with heritage, and he plans to prove it as soon as he can.

With little outlet for his frustrations, Tom plies Annalise and Septimus with questions on magical genealogy. Neither of them have any answers. They don’t understand the urgency. They, after all, are not the ones being derided in the corridors. 

Sometimes Tom wonders if the world is testing him. Though he is the undisputed best of all the students in their group, he remains the only one without a proper family name. He is an outsider in this society, just like he in the Muggle world.

Nearly a week after the Quidditch match, Adelaide reports that Nott has promised to ask his sister for help, and now they all must wait for the results. 

“And what does he want in return?” Annalise asks.

Adelaide’s lip curls in disgust, but she shakes her head. “He didn’t ask for anything,” she says, and then refuses to elaborate further.

Tom thinks about questioning her in private about it, but then decides it can wait. She’ll tell him eventually, if only because there’s no one else for her to tell.

* * *

As some students begin preparation for the winter exams, Tom signs out more books on offensive and defensive spells. Harry does not protest this time. 

In fact, Harry sits with Tom in their dorm room for hours, until Tom can summon his snake statue from across the room while his eyes are closed. They study new spells on evenings when Harry doesn’t have Quidditch practice, and they spend the weekend in the library, combing through the student archives. There are many Potters in those archives, but no Riddles.

Harry reads over the names of his ancestors and relatives with a restrained curiosity that Tom pretends not to see. On late afternoons when Harry does have Quidditch, Tom practices hexes and jinxes on unsuspecting furniture in the unused classroom. 

Sometimes, Adelaide will come by and join him. Tom will silently push whatever book he’s been reading in her direction, and they will learn the same spells together. Adelaide has a mean streak in her, too. While she portrays the spitting image of the perfect daughter, she has a good deal of anger stowed inside of her.

Adelaide’s first attempt at the Blasting Curse is so powerful that it smashes her target of a wooden desk into the stone wall, where it explodes, smoldering with thick black smoke.

“Well done,” Tom says, impressed. “Maybe try to explode it first, next time? Rather than having the wall do all the work.”

Adelaide’s sweat-flushed face glares at him in response. It takes them both a couple of attempts to vanish all of the mess, and by then even Tom feels drained.

“That was very loud,” Adelaide says. “I think we’re done for today.”

They exit the classroom and part ways. Tom checks the time with his wand—_“Tempus”_—and notes that the hour is later than he’d realized.

Tom hurries his pace along and enters the Gryffindor Common Room with a few minutes to spare. The area is mostly empty save for a few older students who are studying in the back corner. Leo, however, is seated at the table that is usually claimed by Tom and his friends.

Prior to the incident with the note, Tom would have thought Leo considered him a friend. But given how badly their confrontation had gone, he wonders what Leo thinks now. Leo is sitting at their table, but there is no one around to see it.

One way to find out.

Tom steps over and pulls out a chair. “You’re up late.”

Leo glances up, then drops his eyes back to his parchment. Tom drops his eyes as well. Leo is writing a letter. To his mother again?

“So are you,” Leo says. “Nearly curfew, Tom.”

Tom shrugs. “I know the time. And even so, I would never let myself be caught.”

“Sure.” Leo scrawls another sentence out on his parchment. Though the movement is slow, the handwriting is steady and the letters are neat.

Tom dislikes the blunt tone. He would like to befriend Leo, to bring him into their group, but damage has already been done, and Tom is at a loss of how to fix it. Leo had not been very interested in joining them to start with; if Tom recalls correctly, it had been Francesca’s idea. 

But if Tom is going to be in charge of Hogwarts like he is at Wool’s, if Hogwarts is going to be _ better _ than Wool’s, then everyone needs to be paying attention to him. That includes Leo Morden.

Leo continues to write, studiously ignoring Tom while he does so. Tom frowns. How would Harry approach this situation?

The seconds slip by. Eventually the upper years close their books and head upstairs, leaving Tom, Leo, and the crackling fireplace. It is only in the silence of the empty common room that the correct course of action occurs to Tom. 

If this was Harry sitting in front of him, if _ Harry _ had been the one to go with him that day, Tom knows exactly what he would be saying.

“Leo,” says Tom. “I’m very sorry about what happened last week. I didn’t mean for it to turn sour the way it did, and I certainly didn’t want you to get hurt in the process. I promise I won’t involve you in anything like that again unless you want to.”

Leo’s quill pauses in place; he lifts his hand before the ink can blot on on the parchment. “That’s nice of you, Tom. I have to say, I wasn’t expecting it, but I appreciate it.”

“Is there anything I can help you with?” Tom asks. “To make it up to you.” To ensure that Leo feels indebted to him in the future.

Leo sets his quill aside, thoughtful. “I don’t think so. You really don’t need to offer anything. While I don’t like how the meeting went, I understand why you wanted me there.” He waves his hand airily. “They don’t like you. They probably don’t like me much, either. It’s just you’re a larger target to take down, ‘cause of your marks and all.”

“Yes, exactly. Which is why it’s important we stick together, don’t you think? They might come from magical families, but that doesn’t mean they’re smarter than we are.”

“Some wizards just think that way,” Leo says. “They think magic makes them special.”

That isn’t quite what Tom had been attempting to say. “Well, we are wizards,” Tom says slowly. “You and I. Magic _ does _ make us special.”

Leo purses his lips, then stretches his arms out over the table. “Sure. You and Harry live in an orphanage, right? With Muggles?”

Tom holds his neutral expression. “Yes. What about it?”

“So you think you’re better than them, don’t you?”

“Of course I am,” Tom says, indignant. “Why wouldn’t I be?” They’re just Muggles. They don’t have magic. They are nothing. They pale in comparison to what Tom is, to what he can do.

“Why isn’t that the same thing as blood status, then?” Leo demands. “If blood doesn’t make you special, then why would magic? It’s the same question and the same answer. You’re a Muggleborn—” 

“Halfblood,” Tom spits out. “I’m a Halfblood.”

_ “Halfblood, _ then. And your magic is better than Lestrange’s. You do better on all our exams than he does. If blood doesn’t matter, and magic comes from blood, then you’re just saying the same things Lestrange is saying, only you’re saying it about Muggles!”

“Why do you care so much about Muggles?” Tom asks, irritated. “Who even cares about Muggles?”

Leo caps his inkwell and starts to shove his things into his bag. “Because my mother is one,” Leo says flatly. “Good night, Tom. Thanks for the apology.”

  
Now alone in the common room, Tom smacks his fist down on the table. Leo is wrong. Leo doesn’t understand because he _ knows _ who his parents are. Tom has no such luxury.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was too tired to edit this chapter a second time, so if there are mistakes, it's my bad. 
> 
> uh, some stuff and things happen in this chapter. lots of meaning.
> 
> -hand waves vaguely and says something clever- 
> 
> ...thanks for reading!


	16. tension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rift between Tom and Septimus grows.

Tom learns that the note has been successfully stolen when he and Harry are accosted in the corridor. It’s a regular Tuesday, unnotable in all aspects, and Tom had planned for the two of them to escape their friends in favour of some time alone together.

Given all the events of the past two months, he and Harry have had no time to revisit the odd connection between their wands. Tom had drawn up a list of things to try and is in the middle of outlining them with Harry when he hears footsteps.

When a wand appears around the corner, Harry reacts first, wrist snapping upwards, incantation on his lips.

The two spells collide with a fizzing sound, cancelling each other out. Tom draws his own wand and fires off a hex when Lestrange comes into view.

Lestrange twists out of the way, revealing the two others behind him. “We know it was you,” hisses Lestrange. “You stole it, didn’t you, Riddle? But now you’re going to give it back, or else you’re going to pay.”

Tom isn’t worried. Three against two again, only this time Tom has the advantage of Harry by his side. Harry performs admirably, jaw clenched in concentration, movements fluid and natural as he spins away from Avery’s attempt to hex him.

Sparks fly back and forth as they attempt to hit each other, neither side yet daring to attempt any complex spells. As second years, their magical cores are not yet strong enough to cast more than two or three higher-powered spells at a time, and thus they are limited to the number of hexes and curses they can cast. 

But Tom has been practicing, pushing his limits, and he is no average second year. 

_ “Locomotor Mortis!” _

The spell lands, this time. Mulciber’s legs stiffen underneath him. Both Slytherins look over in time to see their friend tip forward, face first, nose smashing onto the stone floor with a pained cry.

Without hesitating, Tom casts again: _ “Locomotor Mortis!” _

Lestrange doesn’t expect the second curse right away. He jerks to the left, but the spell catches him in the ankle. He, too, falls, but the angle is off—he twists and lands on his side, arm pinned awkwardly underneath his torso.

Avery has his wand raised, but he wavers before casting, visibly hesitating. The Leg-Locker Curse is from a Dark Arts book: _ Curses and Counter-Curses. _ It will be a spell that all three Slytherins recognize, Tom is sure. And if Tom can cast this spell, if he’s read that book, then he’s shown he’s willing to shirk the image of the consummate, straight-laced Gryffindor.

“You’ll leave us all alone if you know what’s good for you,” Tom says, repressing the fatigue in his voice. “I could curse all of you, if I wanted to.”

To his right, Harry says nothing, but his shoulders are stiff and alert. Tom reaches for Harry’s elbow, then begins to guide them away. Harry tenses even more as they turn their backs, but the two of them walk away unscathed.

“Where are we going?” Harry asks, a few corridors later. He stares at their surroundings, at the portraits on the walls. They reach the top of a staircase and start to descend. “To the library?”

“Yes. I want to check in with the others.”

Tom wants to see if the note has reached Adelaide’s hands. The mystery of their wands will have to wait for another day.

Harry nods, almost to himself. “And do you think the Slytherins will? Leave us alone, I mean.”

“Today will have put them off for a while,” Tom says, smug. “But I don’t doubt they’ll try again eventually. We’ll just have to keep practicing.” He stretches his arms a bit, then allows some of the strain to seep into his posture.

Harry frowns, grim. “Are you alright? You cast a lot of spells. Maybe we should take a break before we walk to the library. It’s all the way on the other side of the school.”

“I am completely fine, Harry. You might remember that Lestrange and Mulciber were the ones who ended up on the floor.”

Harry shrugs, deliberately looking away. “Alright, if you say so.”

Tom wants to wipe at his brow with the hem of his robe, but he doesn’t want Harry to catch him at it. Scowling, Tom turns his face towards the rows of portraits. It’s still so strange to him that the portraits can move and talk. 

But portraits are not the same as ghosts, according to Professor Dumbledore. They are even more distant from their original counterparts than ghosts are.

Portraits are a brief glimpse at the people who used to roam these halls. Ghosts are more substantial, but lacking in appropriate depth and emotion. Tom had never known such ways of immortalizing oneself could exist, but he finds the idea interesting. What would a portrait of Tom Riddle look like? Act like? What would he say?

They walk down two more flights of stairs before they reach the ground level. Tom’s legs are used to this path, the path that leads to the library. Soon enough, he and Harry are headed directly for the table tucked away by one of the tall back shelves.

“Tom! Harry!” Annalise waves them over, her voice a rushed, excited whisper. “We got it!” she declares, once they are within earshot.

“Let’s see,” Tom says, holding out a hand. “And where’s your sister?”

“She didn’t want to linger.” Septimus pushes a neatly-folded square of parchment across the table.

Tom narrows his eyes at the slight, but he picks it up off the table and unfolds it, verifying that it’s the real note and not a fake.

“What a relief,” says Harry, slumping down into a chair. The chair, position-wise, is not his usual seat, but it’s not a big deal. Tom sits in Harry’s usual chair and runs a finger down the edge of the parchment before he folds it back up.

“Should we destroy it?” Annalise asks. “Set it on fire?”

“Not here,” Tom says, tucking the note into the inner pocket of his robes. “Later. Now, what are we working on?”

* * *

November closes without further incident. Tom burns the note in a solemn ceremony outside on the grounds while the others watch, and afterwards they move onto more productive activities.

Their winter exams are looming. With everyone busy, their study group narrows back down to its usual smaller cluster, which Tom is glad for. All he can think about is how sweet his victory will taste when he ranks first place for the third time since the start of his Hogwarts career. However, Tom isn’t the only one dedicating large amounts of time to pondering the upcoming deadlines.

“Hello, all,” says MacMillan.

Most of the table greets him. Tom doesn’t, and he doesn’t glance up right away, either. He finishes his sentence, then sets his quill down carefully before he turns his attention to his roommate.

Tom smiles, not speaking, because he has an idea of why MacMillan is here, and he wants the question to be as difficult and uncomfortable to ask as possible.

“So,” says MacMilllan, when it becomes clear they are all waiting for him to speak, “myself and some others were wondering if you all had been working on another study guide?”

“Oh, we have,” Tom says, polite, hands folded neatly on the desk.

“Ah.” MacMillan’s mouth curls into an expression of confusion, pale eyes wandering up and down the faces at the table. “Is… is it done?”

Tom follows the path of MacMillan’s gaze, satisfaction rising in him at how the group looks to him, waiting for a decision. “It will be, shortly,” Tom allows.

Relief spreads along the line of MacMillan’s shoulders. “That’s fantastic,” he says, now cheerful. “And same price as last time, yeah? Or less, since it’s only part way through the year?”

“Oh, we’re not charging for it this time.” Tom shakes his head, then spreads his hands, palms open. “Free to anyone who wants to come directly to us and ask, with a limit of one copy per person.”

MacMillan stares, disbelieving, and then his eyes narrow. “And what about the year-end ones?”

Tom shrugs, artfully so. “I haven’t quite decided. Is there anything else you need?”

“I—”

Tom enjoys the visible fluster on MacMillan’s face. “Wonderful,” he says, cutting the other boy off. “So I’ll see you back here in a few days, likely. Or not, depending on whether we’re finished.”

Tom turns back to his parchment, pauses, then glances back up. The action is deliberate, but Tom is sure that Harry will be the only one to notice. “If you _ did _ want to help, Eldon, I’d appreciate it if you could spread the word.”

“I can do that,” says MacMillan, after a pause. “I’ll leave you all to it, then.”

“See you at lunch,” says Annalise, waving. The pleasant warmth to her voice is unmistakable—for the second time, MacMillan seems disoriented by the twists of the conversation.

“See you,” he says, then departs.

“That was good fun,” Annalise says. “When did you decide to not charge for the guides, Tom?”

“I had been thinking about it for a while. I only decided to just now.”

“Any particular reason?” asks Septimus, raising his brows. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you, because you do a lot of the work, Tom, and you as well, Harry, so it’s really not my place to say—”

“It isn’t,” Tom interjects, voice level. “But I had rather thought it would help us connect with the rest of the students in our year. Last year, students would come to buy multiple copies for themselves and their friends. This way, they’ll have to seek us out on their own if they want a copy.” 

If Tom helps them without charge, they’ll feel indebted, much the way MacMillan is already beginning to feel. 

“That sounds fine to me,” says Septimus, flipping the cover of his textbook shut with a thump. “Next time maybe run it by all of us, then. So we’re not all sitting here like lumps while you talk to someone.”

To Tom’s right, Harry is sitting, quite motionless, his green eyes flickering between Tom and Septimus.

Tom’s temper begins to fray at the edges, unravelling like thick rope. Harry’s watchful gaze is all that is holding him still, all that is keeping his jaw locked shut.

“I see,” Tom says. Then he lets the quiet stretch out, tension pulled tight, before he adds, mimicking the tone he’d used with Eldon MacMillan, “Is there anything else you need?”

It’s just as satisfying to see the tips of Septimus’ ears go red as he flushes with anger. He looks to Harry, then to Annalise, neither of whom say a thing. Then Septimus is rising from his chair with a sudden motion and shoving his book into his bag. 

“I’ll see you all at lunch,” he mutters, then departs.

“What was that all about?” Annalise asks faintly.

“I don’t know what his problem is,” Tom replies, sneering in the general direction of the library exit. “But seeing as he’s gone now, there isn’t any point dwelling on it.”

Harry sets his quill down. He’s chewing on the inside of his cheek, Tom can see it. 

“It would have been nice if you could have said something in advance,” Harry says at last. “But what’s done is done.”

What’s done is done? What is that even supposed to _ mean? _ Tom can’t help but think Harry is judging him, that Harry is agreeing with Septimus because he’s mad and unwilling to say it aloud.

“I’m going for a walk,” Tom says, shoving back in his chair. “Harry?”

Harry hesitates a beat too long, then puts his things away. “Sure.”

“Oh, you’re both leaving?” Annalise asks, crestfallen at being left alone at the table. “Well, alright. That’s alright. You two had plans before, I suppose.”

“We’ll see you at lunch,” Harry says to her, sounding apologetic.

Tom isn’t apologetic. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Tom fixes his eyes straight ahead while they walk. It is with some irritation that he notes they’d had a similar day like this during November of last year. That time, however, Tom had failed to hold his temper, and Annalise had suffered as a result.

“You’re supposed to side with me,” Tom says flatly, once they’re far enough away from where others might hear them.

“I side when you with it counts,” Harry says in return, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his school robes. “When it’s against the Slytherins, or when we have to talk to our professors, or with older students. But when it comes to our friends—”

“I’m supposed to be the most important one! Not any of _ them.” _

Harry’s eyes widen at the vehemence, and Tom can’t comprehend why Harry can’t see the situation clearly. The obliviousness is astounding. 

“It’s not about sides,” Harry says. “You _ are _ the most important person to me, Tom.”

Tom grabs onto Harry’s sleeve, stopping him in the middle of the corridor. Harry pauses with reluctance and folds his arms across his chest.

“Then explain to me,” Tom says, “why you keep defending Septimus when he’s disparaging everything I try to do.”

Harry splutters at this. “I’m not defending him! I don’t know why you need to see everything as people picking sides. We’re a group altogether, and we do things together. And we should be making decisions together, too. Just because I happen to agree with him sometimes—that doesn’t mean I’m choosing a side.”

“It does!” Tom shakes his head. “You know I don’t mind when we talk about things in private, Harry. I _ always _ listen to you when you disagree with what I say or do. But you can’t do that in front of other people. I need everyone to see we’re in agreement.”

“They’re our friends,” Harry protests. “That’s not the same. If Septimus or Annalise or Adelaide suggests something, it’s only because they want to help.”

“I don’t trust them like I trust you.” And Harry should do the same because it’s only sensible.

“You can’t _ only _ trust me.”

“I do,” Tom says, stubborn. “You’re the only one.”

Harry stares, unblinking. His cheeks are faintly flush. Tom feels a rush knowing that what he says to Harry has such an impact, that the power of trust he places in those hands is meaningful. 

Tom cares about Harry, and only Harry, because Harry is the one person aside from himself he can trust. Even if Harry is being difficult right now, Harry would never choose Septimus over him. Not if it came down to a _ real _ choice.

“I think you need to be more understanding,” Harry says. “Septimus means well, and he keeps secrets for us. You can’t expect everyone to agree with you all the time, Tom. It isn’t realistic.”

Tom opens his mouth to bite back, acerbic response on the tip of his tongue, but then he snaps his jaw shut, thinking better of it. People _ should _ agree with him because he’s _ right, _ he is always _ right— _

Only... experience has proven that isn’t always the case.

At least, not at Hogwarts.

But nevertheless, Tom had acted correctly in all of those situations. External circumstances were to blame for his failures. Unforeseen twists and turns of events that had altered the course of his plans. He has learned from them, and he will do better in the future.

“Tom?”

Tom counts the breaths expanding in his chest. In and out, a tempered pattern. “I see what you mean.”

Harry blinks slowly, surprising flickering across his face. “Yeah?”

“And I don’t agree with it,” Tom says, irritated. “You’re the one who wants us to argue about these things. You’re letting other people cause problems between us,” Tom accuses.

“And I don’t know why you have all these problems with Septimus all of a sudden,” Harry snaps back.

“Because he’s disrespecting me,” Tom says. “And even if you can’t see it, you should believe it because I’m the one telling you. We’re supposed to see things the same,” Tom insists. “You know I’m only trying to do what’s best for everyone.”

Harry clenches his jaw, unclenches it. “You promised me you would try to care more. I’m telling you that I don’t think there is anything wrong, and you should believe me because _ I’m _ the one telling you this.”

The blunt response rubs Tom the wrong way. Harry’s never thrown his own words back in his face like that before. Tom reaches for his anger, for his frustration, but suddenly it is harder to grasp. The space inside of him that he’d wanted to fill remains uncomfortably empty.

“We’re spending the winter holidays with the Weasleys,” Harry continues, “so unless you want us to stay at Hogwarts, you best figure it out for yourself.”

Tom doesn’t answer. There must be something in his expression that gives away what he’s feeling, or at least the _ lack _ of what he’s feeling, because Harry grimaces, shoulders slumping.

“Let’s talk about something else,” Harry says, sounding weary. “This isn’t going anywhere, and I don’t want us to argue anymore.”

“Okay,” Tom says. He’s not sure what else there is to say.

Harry attempts a smile. It’s lopsided and not quite like usual, but seeing it helps sooth the hollow ache in Tom’s chest. “We are in this together,” Harry says, “even if we have our disagreements.”

Tom turns away. “It should be time for lunch soon. Let’s go.”

They start to walk. Tom tries to lose himself in the paths of corridors that lead to the Great Hall, in the graceful swing of arms and legs that projects confidence.

“What’s the real reason for giving out the guides?” Harry asks casually, an attempt at bridge mending.

Tom doesn’t feel like talking anymore, but this is Harry asking, and so he’ll provide his reasoning.

“Everyone who takes one will feel like they owe us,” Tom explains. “And I would like to get to know everyone else better. That part wasn’t a lie. They may know who I am, but I don’t know them. It’ll be useful to have the information for the future.”

“Makes sense. Are we going to expand our group with more people?”

Tom thinks that over, then decides that the answer is no, not while Septimus is proving to be a problem. But he can’t say that now, not when they’d just put the matter to rest. 

“Not yet,” Tom says. “We’ll see who might work well with us and keep them in mind.”

“And what about Leo?”

“I apologized to him already. He accepted it, but I don’t know if he wants to stay with us or not.”

Harry nods. “I guess we’ll see later on.”

With everyone busy studying for exams, their study group had narrowed back down to its smaller cluster, which Tom is glad for. Perhaps the winter holidays will help Hogwarts settle back to its usual routine, and come January, Tom will be able to return his attention to more important tasks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took a loooong time to write, unfortunately. i didn't want to keep you all waiting too long, either! but i hope this chapter is satisfactory, and i hope to get the ball rolling again if my brain will cooperate.
> 
> also, reminder to check out the link to my discord server below, where you can find me and a lovely assortment of others!


	17. interlude iii: adelaide greengrass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adelaide struggles with fitting herself into the world around her.
> 
> A/N: summary of both the current story arc and the entire series can be found in the author's note of this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> previously:
>
>> Tom’s attempt to get revenge on the Slytherins for tripping Harry results in Cassian Lestrange suffering a severe allergic reaction. Harry is upset that Tom kept his plans a secret; Tom had promised to share his plans before doing anything. Tom realizes he has damaged Harry’s trust in him, so he makes a new promise to Harry that he will try to do better in regards to their friends. 
>> 
>> After being released from the Hospital Wing, Lestrange plans to blackmail Tom with the incriminating note Tom left in his bag. After a failed attempt to steal the note back, Tom struggles with feelings of jealousy and anger in regards to his repeated failures to handle their current problems. This causes arguments to develop between Tom and Septimus; it also strains the trust that Harry is only beginning to offer back to Tom.
>> 
>> The group decides to have a third party, Bertrand Nott’s sister, steal the note back from Lestrange. The burden of arranging this falls upon Adelaide, who agrees to do so without offering many details on her plans. Tom turns his attention back to manipulating the student body in his favour—in the process, he finds that Leo Morden has strong morals and opinions that he had never considered previously.
> 
> find a summary of the **ENTIRE SERIES** up until this point at this link [HERE](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1QhDAZjWA9Y3_YqzBgGIkZjUq4OUEf1QZ6tP23XEjqaU/edit)!!

Contrary to the appearance she puts forth, Adelaide doesn’t like Bertrand Nott very much. On the surface, he is the very definition of a Ravenclaw—brilliant marks, sharp wit, inclination towards accumulating knowledge. 

In reality, Adelaide finds him boring.

He doesn’t talk much in public company, but in private he is always asking her inane questions about their schoolwork. He enjoys implying that she’s not as smart as she thinks she is.

Adelaide takes pride in her house, in her intelligence. She doesn’t need Nott explaining how to cast the Levitation Charm like she’s a babbling infant. Adelaide had outranked Nott on last year’s winter exams; a fact she’d been sure to rub in his face—politely—whenever the opportunity arose. 

But their roles had reversed in June. Practical exams had taken a toll; her marks had fallen enough for Nott to surpass her. Every time they crossed paths over the summer, she’d been forced to listen to his posturing. It was maddening.

Given the closeness of their two families, Adelaide doesn’t doubt that Nott has realized what she’s already known for some time now—sooner or later, a contract will be arranged between the Greengrasses and the Notts, and Bertrand will find himself with either Adelaide or Annalise as his wife.

The idea of it fills her with disgust. She can’t imagine spending the rest of her life tied to this idiotic boy.

But there are advantages to this impending union. Adelaide seeks to reap the benefits of this dynamic when she can. She knows what Nott is like, how awful he can be, but she also knows what to say to get him to do what she wants. It’s only a matter of using the right words.

* * *

Adelaide is partnered with Nott in Herbology, which is both the best and the worst class to hold a private conversation in.

On one hand, the nature of the class means that the greenhouse is typically filled with chatter that helps to mask and distract anyone who would try to listen in. On the other hand, it is difficult to hear anyone well enough to be able to talk to them in the first place.

Still, this is the best choice. The Ravenclaw common room is too quiet for such a thing, and Adelaide would rather pull out her own hair than ask Nott to meet her somewhere privately.

“I have a favour to ask you,” Adelaide says, apropos of nothing.

“Oh?” Nott glances over at her, his shoulders straightening. “What might that be?”

Adelaide holds back a snort at his obvious attempt at bravado. “There’s something in Slytherin house that I need, and I was wondering if you could ask Lydia to fetch it for me.”

“Something you need?” Nott blinks, frowning in confusion. “What could you possibly need from Slytherin?”

Adelaide stabs her trowel into the pot in front of her. “Lestrange has an incriminating note that I need back. It could get me into trouble.”

Nott scoffs. The sound of it sets Adelaide’s teeth on edge. “What could you have done to get into such trouble? Don’t tell me it’s a love note, Adelaide. I’d think less of you if it was.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Adelaide says. Her arms tense with anger, her hand clenching around the wooden handle of her trowel. Does he really think so little of her? “It’s nothing like that at all.”

“Hmm.” Nott goes back to minding his pot, which does nothing to banish the hatred Adelaide feels at being dismissed.

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,” she says tightly. Then she grits her teeth, swallowing as she forces her jaw to relax. She needs him to listen to her, and that means she needs to rid herself of her pride for this one moment. “I—I need your help. There isn’t anyone else I can ask. Anyone else I _ would _ ask, I mean.”

That gets his attention. Nott looks up, considering. “If it is so important to you, I suppose I can lend a hand,” he concedes. “After all, I did promise to look out for you, didn’t I?

He’d made that promise last year. Adelaide had been counting on it, in fact. His sense of self-importance. His sense of _ entitlement. _ He thinks she needs to be looked after, fine—she will use this to her own advantage.

“I’ll ask Lydia,” he says, smiling now. “So you have no need to worry anymore.”

Adelaide smiles back, wide and dazzling and fake. “Thank you. I knew I could count on you to help me.”

Nott’s chest puffs with pride. “Of course, Adelaide. You can always come to me with anything you need help with.”

* * *

That should have been the end of it. Adelaide expected Lydia to say yes, and she expected to be delivered the note in due time. She had not expected to be approached, and in hindsight, this seems like a grave error on her part. Lydia can be just as nosy as her brother, can be just as prone to flaunting superiority where it’s neither warranted nor wanted.

“My brother tells me you’ve gotten into some trouble,” Lydia states once the appropriate protective charms have been cast around them.

Adelaide offers a neutral sound in response, unwilling to give up any information unless she is made to do so. This much she has learned over the years, to keep what she values close to her chest. To save her words and her care for the ones who matter.

Lydia narrows her blue-grey eyes. It’s an eye colour that Adelaide likens to puddles of rain water on dirty pavement. “This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with Tom Riddle, would it?”

The question catches Adelaide by surprise. She doesn’t know how to respond, but she does know that silence is just as bad as saying nothing. The problem is, she doesn’t have a better response to offer. An outright lie would be worse at this point, practically an admission of guilt.

“Doing favours for boys never ends well, you know.”

“It’s not like that,” Adelaide says, defensive. “Riddle and I… we have an understanding. A mutually beneficial relationship.”

Riddle isn’t like Nott. He doesn’t treat her like an object to be owned, or a tool to be used. He understands the value of what they can do for each other. Riddle has the potential to surpass the hindrance of his blood status if he has the proper help. If he has the Pureblood daughter of a noble house to guide him in the ways of their society.

Lydia tsks in such a way that Adelaide winces. “Having an understanding doesn’t put you on equal ground,” Lydia says. “Don’t mistake the two as related.”

Adelaide holds her tongue, but only barely. Lydia is going to help, she reminds herself. Her personal distaste for Lydia can be squashed down in the face of this task.

“I see,” Adelaide says finally. “Thank you for the advice, Lydia.”

Lydia’s face—her fine features pinched and angular—gazes down with indifference. “I’ll help you out this time,” Lydia says, “because you’re still young. Too young to be making enemies, certainly.” 

Adelaide’s mouth is dry and tasteless, but she manages to force out a response. “Thank you.”

“That’s all, then.” Lydia retrieves her wand and removes the privacy spells she’d set up. “I’ll see about having your item soon.”

“Thank you,” Adelaide repeats, a bland smile affixed to her lips. The smile stays there, stiff, until Lydia vanishes around the far corner, long plait of hair swishing behind her.

She won’t end up like Lydia. That much she’s promised to herself.

* * *

To Adelaide, the walk to Ravenclaw tower always feels lonely. 

All of her closest friends—acquaintances—are Gryffindors. Parkinson and Bones are nice enough, but Adelaide has nothing in common with them. They are all daughters of prominent Pureblood families, but Adelaide has no plans for following in the footsteps of her female ancestors.

Usually she avoids the common room in favour of her dorm, but today an impulse drives her over to where the other girls in her year are gathered together. Eva Bones, Catherine Parkinson, and Sabrina ‘Rina’ Rowle.

“Adelaide,” greets Eva. “Did you want to sit with us? We were just discussing the electives we want to take next year. What do you think of Ancient Runes?”

Adelaide smiles and nods, takes her place next to the girls that, for all intents and purposes, are supposed to be her friends. “I’m considering that class,” she allows. “And Arithmancy.”

“Arithmancy,” says Catherine, wrinkling her nose. “My mother says it’s a difficult class. My brother, Alexander, took it. Don’t tell anyone, but he nearly failed his OWL! So she told me I should consider Divination instead. She said it’s more suited for us.”

“I’m taking Arithmancy,” Adelaide repeats, firmly this time. She doesn’t consider herself part of the ‘us’ that Catherine is implying.

“Best of luck to you, then,” Rina says. “Out of all of us, Adelaide, I think you’d be the best at it.”

Adelaide feels warm upon hearing that. “Thank you,” she says, and she means it. 

It’s a silly, stupid thing, to feel proud of the way these girls rank her above them in terms of intelligence, but it’s all that she has to cling to—these reassurances that she _ is _ smart, that she _ is _ capable. Other people will bear witness to her intelligence here at Hogwarts, confirming the mantras that she has drilled into herself. Mantras of self worth and value. Mantras of hope and faith.

“Speaking of marks,” Eva says. “Any news on Riddle’s study guide? I was hoping to start preparing for our winter exams. Normally I wouldn’t go for this sort of thing, you know, but Riddle _ is _ the smartest in our year.”

Adelaide inhales, exhales, gazes over the soft, trusting faces of her female companions. “It’ll be along shortly,” she tells them. There’s a strange rush in her chest at the power of this statement, of the power she holds with this information, this insider knowledge that they are eager for. “Tom has told me that there will be no charge this time. Everyone is free to ask for one copy, provided they go to ask personally for themselves only.”

The girls titter at the use of the first name, and Adelaide feels the rush of warmth spread in her chest to her cheeks. This is what it’s like to have something that people want and hold it over them.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Rina says, faltering. “I don’t know if I could go up and ask like that.” She pivots to stare at Catherine, then Eva, then back at Adelaide. “You’ll all come with me, won’t you? You won’t make me ask on my own.”

“Riddle’s not _ scary,” _ Catherine says, disapproving. “He’s a perfectly nice boy, even if he hasn’t got the right sort of upbringing.”

Eva responds, and Adelaide tunes the conversation out after that. She doesn’t want to hear about ‘upbringings’. Not at this moment. She pulls a book out of her bag and begins to read, knowing that they won’t bother her if they’re engrossed in conversation. 

Her eyes refuse to focus on the page, though. The lines of words are swimming like ocean waves. All she can think of now are the days and weeks counting down to the winter holidays.

* * *

There is a nook in the Hogwarts library where Adelaide likes to study on her own. It sits in one of the lesser-visited sections—full of history books and dusty shelves, all untouched due to Binns’ atrocious handling of the subject—far enough away from the populated areas that even the minimal noise of the library is practically non-existent.

The space is dark, but it is made tolerable by the Everlasting Candle that Adelaide carries in her bag for late study nights in Ravenclaw tower. Adelaide comes here when she’s not in the mood for anyone’s company. When even the idea of Annalise walking in on her makes her want to crawl under a rock and stay there for a century.

Exams are a stressful time for everyone, Adelaide included, but it is extra stressful for Annalise, who panics over the slightest issue and renders herself incapable of doing anything at all. Adelaide doesn’t understand it. If anything, she finds it immensely frustrating. But they are sisters; they are stuck in this life together, for better or for worse. Adelaide loves her sister more than anything. 

And so when Adelaide sees Annalise hunched over a table near the Charms section of the library, she walks over despite her sour mood.

What follows is the typical expression of discontent from Annalise, who is wallowing in her misery and self pity. Adelaide would normally provide some words of comfort and reassurance, but Adelaide had come to the library to be alone. She isn’t in the mood to coddle her sister in this moment.

“You have your notes,” Adelaide says, exasperated. “And Riddle’s notes. _ And _ my notes. All you really need to do is look at them.”

“I know that!” Annalise slumps across the table with a low thud.

Adelaide has been patient. More patient than their brother or their mother would have been, certainly. “We don’t have a choice. _ You _ don’t have a choice. You need to do your best, Annalise. Just keep your head up until we can graduate Hogwarts.”

“It’s so far away,” Annalise says mournfully. “And who knows what will happen by then?”

“Break your study time up into shorter periods. Or simply follow the schedule the rest are doing. Aren’t you all studying in the common room together?”

“We are. But it’s not the same! I don’t like to ask them questions and things.” Annalise drops her eyes to the tabletop, lips pressed in a mild frown of discomfort.

Adelaide lays a hand on her sister’s arm, but Annalise remains restless, her left hand tapping fingers on the table.

“If you don’t ask for help, no one’s going to give you any,” Adelaide says bluntly. “I can only help you so much. If you can’t ask your friends for help, then who will you ask?”

“I don’t—” Annalise says, flustered. “I’m fine. I can do it myself, I just need to focus.”

“Have you written Mother yet?” Adelaide adds. “It’s Friday.” Fridays are for writing letters to their parents.

Annalise rubs at her face, flustered. “I sent a short note this morning. I didn’t have the energy for anything longer. You?”

Annalise’s letters are always short. Adelaide feels a need to compensate for this, and so her letters end up being a considerable length. It’s alright, though. If Annalise was to write about how her best friends are Muggleborn boys and Septimus Weasley, it may not go over so well.

Best that Annalise keep her letters concise and limited to talk of schoolwork. Adelaide can fill in the gaps with talk of her Ravenclaw classmates and censored summaries of her study sessions with the Gryffindors.

“I have a draft done up,” Adelaide says. “I’ll likely send it tonight. I’ve come here to study, actually.”

Annalise’s returning smile wanes. “I won’t keep you any longer, then.”

Adelaide feels bad. She doesn’t want to stay, but she also doesn’t like the guilt that comes from leaving.

After that, Adelaide leaves her sister to study. Her original goal of solitude is easily achieved; Adelaide sets up her workspace and starts on her Transfiguration revision.

It takes some time for her mind to clear itself enough to focus, and by then the fatigue of the day is settling in, curling around her shoulders like a lazy serpent, weighing her down. But the focus is there, so Adelaide can push past the rest. Her hand glides across the parchment as she transcribes neat lists of Transfiguration rules and spell movements.

The library around her is quiet, devoid of even the most careful of students. Slowly, Adelaide begins to relax, losing herself in the pages of her textbook and the rough feel of the parchment beneath her hand. Underlined headings and neat lists of bullet points. Blue ink for the incantations.

Adelaide scratches out three chapters of notes before she thinks to check the time. The nearest window is just around the shelf to her left—Adelaide rises to her feet, stretching her legs out, and stumbles a few steps over to take a peek. 

The window is dark, as expected. The night sky is cloud-covered and starless. Adelaide takes some amount of comfort from the vastness of it. She is tiny, in the scheme of things. She is but another human being amongst millions.

Adelaide retrieves her wand from her robes. _ “Tempus.” _

It is well past curfew. Sweet Morgana.

Adelaide scrambles back to the table to put her things away. While her evening absence may not be noticeable, her morning absence surely will be. And either way, Adelaide doesn’t plan on staying in the library overnight. That would lead to being caught, she’s sure. 

Her chances are better if she attempts to return to Ravenclaw tower without being seen. Adelaide’s hands begin to shake as she rolls her parchment and tucks it into her bookbag. 

A part of her is terrified at being caught out after hours. She’s never broken a rule in her entire life. Not at nursery school, not with her tutors, not at Hogwarts. She’s never been in detention before. Even so, fear of her misdemeanour getting back to her parents is by far more pressing.

As Adelaide dashes out of the library and down the maze of halls that lead to Ravenclaw tower, she wonders if her classmates will be reluctantly impressed by her dedication. 

She isn’t the first Ravenclaw to lose track of time in the library, but she has built a specific reputation for herself. She is poised, put-together, and unflinching. To hear _ Adelaide Greengrass _ was caught out after hours would become a fine topic for conversation.

If even Adelaide is staying up to study, then what hope do the rest of them have?

This thought entertains her up until she hears faint footsteps nearby. Then, suddenly, her mindless daydream is no longer so appealing. Her heart goes off on a sprint, pounding away in her chest, and her limbs feel wooden, rooted into the floor. 

A cold sweat rolls down the back of her neck. Adelaide forces herself to move away from the sound, though it means a detour from her destination.

By the time she finally collapses into her bed, she is too afraid to check the time. Tomorrow, at least, is the start of the weekend. She’ll have time to recover before her studying begins anew.

* * *

Adelaide wakes to noises and someone shaking her awake. Her arm flails out on reflex, nearly smacking whoever it is in the face. 

People are shrieking in the background. Shrill, pitched voices. Her roommates. 

Adelaide’s first thought is that this is why they have Noise-Muffling Charms on their beds. It is so people don’t have to be woken up at awful hours early in the morning. But then shrieking begins anew, louder than before. Adelaide pushes down her exhaustion in favour of wakefulness and alertness. There must be a good reason for all this noise, then.

Catherine looms over Adelaide’s head, glowering face shadowed by the angle and the lack of sunlight at this early hour. “Adelaide. _ Adelaide! _ It’s your bloody family owl! It won’t shut _ up.” _

The words wash over her like ice water. Adelaide struggles into a seated position, her forehead nearly knocking into Catherine’s. Her eyes scan the room—Catherine must have yanked back the bed curtains—and settle on the far window, where Cassiopeia is causing a fuss, flapping around and stabbing her beak viciously at the other girls.

It’s just an owl, Adelaide thinks angrily. Though she’s not sure why she’s angry. A mixture of being woken up after little sleep and having to deal with whatever letter this owl has brought—

_ Letter? _

Adelaide tosses her legs over the side of her bed, snatching her wand up from the bedside table and rushing over to Cassie. The owl takes a swipe at her. Bloody bird’s been spoiled by Mother. 

“Stop it, Cassiopeia,” she demands, imitating the officious tones she’s heard Sebastian and Mother use at home. 

Cassie pauses, glaring balefully, but does not make further attempts at inciting bloodshed, instead holding still so the scroll attached to her scrawny bird leg can be removed by Adelaide.

Once the scroll has been successfully detached, Cassiopeia makes for the window, disturbing Rina and Eva along the way. Adelaide rubs at her eyes. “Let’s all go back to bed.”

“I’m done for,” Catherine says crossly. “I’ll never fall back asleep now.”

Adelaide doesn’t have the energy to care. “Alright. I’ll see you at breakfast, then.” She sets the scroll on her side table, draws the bed curtains shut, then falls gracelessly onto her bed. The letter can wait; the contents won’t change.

Her eyes fall shut easily, exhaustion sweeping over her like a blanket, tugging her into unconsciousness.

Not much longer until the winter holidays. All her worries about _ those _ problems can wait until after their winter exams are over and done with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!!! it has been a little while since my last update, but i am very happy with how this chapter turned out. next, we will be moving directly into the winter holidays. i'm excited to continue writing this story, and i hope you are all excited to continue reading it!
> 
> thank you very much for all your lovely support as i continue to tell tom and harry's journey as best i can.
> 
> please leave comments!!
> 
> * * *
> 
> IN OTHER EXCITING NEWS:
> 
> **Come join 'The Room of Requirement', a community Discord server for fans of the Harry/Tom | Voldemort ship (and characters). The server is 16+ and can be found [HERE](https://discord.gg/2suak9y)!**


	18. balance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's come to the conclusion that he needs to shed some of the mental barriers holding him back.

They are accosted once more in the corridors before the start of the holidays. A last-ditch, desperate attempt by the Slytherins to catch him and Tom off-guard. Landing in the Hospital Wing at this point of the school year would negatively impact their exam week, no matter how much Tom insists otherwise. 

Harry catches sight of the first spell before Tom has a chance to blink, and then both of them are slamming into the wall as Harry shoves Tom out of the way. 

The wall is unforgiving; they slide along, nearly tripping into each other. Harry’s shoulder aches from the blow of the bone hitting solid stone, but he forces his arm, tingling and almost-numb, to shake his wand down from its holster.

There is no visible threat in the corridor. It takes two more dodged spells before Harry realizes their opponents are invisible. Tom must realize it, too; his tactics change immediately. Tom levels his wand and casts, sending a stream of bubbles into the corridor. Harry’s eyes fix on the space where the bubbles vanish, popping out of existence, and from there the fight holds closer ground. 

Now that Harry knows what _ not _ to look for, he listens—for the shuffling of feet on the stone floor, for the spells muttered in undertone, for the insults and taunts Lestrange lets out as he grows frustrated. Harry fires more offensive spells than he ever has—in class or out of it—and though it drains on his magic, he doesn’t feel tired. If anything, he feels… _ alive. _

His magic is alive, and it is with him; it is a fire within him. It used to scare him, knowing his magic was so close to him. Sometimes it still scares him because he knows exactly what it is capable of. 

Learning about magic is only a part of honing his control over it. Harry wants to use his magic to help people, but he also must ensure he never hurts anyone with it by accident.

Tom’s wand dances through the air, fluid and full of grace. Harry, by comparison, slashes his stick of holly in rapid, jerking motions, blasting through like a hurricane. 

It feels like a hidden limb inside of him is stretching out, expanding like a balloon, swelling as it fills with magic, power, determination. The dullness of the castle walls fade in favour of vibrant, swirling spellfire.

The fight between ends when both sides hear footsteps approaching from further down the corridor. Wands vanish inside of robes as the Slytherins retreat. Running back to the dungeons, maybe. 

Harry is frozen in place, numb and trembling, adrenaline buzzing in his veins. The sight of the empty corridor is not enough to reassure him that their enemies are gone. His magic jumps along his skin like sparkling embers, itching to burst free.

“Harry. Harry, let’s _ go.” _

Tom grabs him by the arm and steers them away. Harry stumbles along; they walk at a rapid pace towards a more populated section of the castle. 

It takes a solid ten minutes before Harry can calm his breathing down to a normal rate. Tom is by his side, also breathing erratically, his eyes hard and distant before they refocus on Harry’s face. Then Tom’s grip goes gentle, smoothing down the line of Harry’s arm, adjusting the fall of his robes.

Harry’s chest aches with lingering anxiety, with _ memories, _ but Tom’s touch grounds him. Tom adjusts Harry’s robes and tidies his hair with light fingers. Tom holds him by the elbows and offers a grave expression that looks out of place on a face so young.

They are only twelve years old. They only have each other. 

Harry breathes out.

“There,” Tom murmurs, giving Harry’s shoulder a squeeze. “Like it never happened.”

But it _ had _ happened.

“No one will notice,” Tom adds. The worry is seeping into his voice.

No one noticing used to be part of the problem.

“Harry? Say something, please. Are you alright? Did they hurt you?”

Harry cracks his lips open. His throat is rusted, like he hasn’t spoken in weeks. “I’m fine.” He licks his lips, then repeats, “I’m _ fine, _ Tom,” to Tom’s questioning look. Harry sighs, tries hard to not stare at the walls. Tries to focus on the present moment, allowing Tom to anchor him. “Let’s find the others.”

* * *

Later in the library, Harry relates the story to Septimus and Annalise, his voice lowered to blend in with the low volume of the tense, pre-exam week atmosphere.

“Must be a cloak, then, or a charm,” says Septimus. “Lestrange has a cousin in seventh year studying to be an Auror. He could have cast it. Invisibility cloaks are really rare and more expensive; I doubt anyone would have lent one to him.”

“Wonderful,” Tom says blandly. “Let’s hope they don’t think to try it again.”

“I wouldn’t think so,” Annalise says. “It’s not an easy spell to cast. I don’t think his cousin would be willing to do it more than once.”

“You just need to carry some flour around,” Septimus adds. “My older brothers used to do pranks like that.”

“We could try that,” Harry says.

Tom doesn’t answer at all, which Harry supposes is better than a negative response. 

Septimus taps a hand on the table. “I’ll ask my mum for some during the holidays. Then we can carry it around.”

The tension in the air has grown uncomfortable. Tom has his arms folded across his chest, mouth flattened in an expression of disinterest. Harry looks away from it all. He isn’t in a good place to deal with this at the moment. He doesn't want to think about whatever it is that’s going on with Septimus and Tom. For now, he’d like to pretend everything is okay.

“We should work on our Herbology,” Annalise says, uneasy.

They do, thankfully, and the focus of schoolwork drains the stress of the previous conversation.

* * *

On the last Wednesday before the winter holidays, Professor Dumbledore asks Annalise to stay behind after Transfiguration. She stammers out her agreement, then spends the rest of the class panicking. With some effort, they convince her that nothing bad could possibly happen. Annalise manages to compose herself by the end of the lesson. She offers them a half smile and waves hesitant farewell.

Herbology is their next class, their class with Hufflepuff. They are working with Mandrakes, which means earmuffs, and so they don’t find out about what happened until they are let out for lunch.

“It was odd,” Annalise says. She twists at her hair braid, winding the end around her fingers. “He asked me if I had any questions about review.”

“And he didn’t ask about anything else?” Tom asks in disbelief.

Annalise’s face goes pink; she reaches for her glass of water and holds in it both hands to steady herself. “He offered to help tutor me after the holidays if… if I don’t get the marks I want.”

Tom harrumphs. “Well, it won’t have to come to that.” He goes back to poking at his plate. “We’re perfectly capable of helping you.”

“I don’t know. I think it may be helpful,” Annalise mumbles, looking at her plate. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time, Tom. You’ve already done so much.”

Tom shakes his head, dismissive. “Nonsense. We enjoy helping you. You’re our friend.”

Annalise seems confused by Tom’s adamance, but her mouth curls and she looks happier. “Thank you. I do appreciate that. I appreciate all of you.” Her eyes turn to each of them in turn. “It doesn’t matter at the moment, anyhow,” Annalise adds brightly. “I will just… see how everything is after we have our exams.”

“We’re still here to help you if you need it,” Harry interjects, just to make sure. “You don't have to wait until after exams.”

“Exactly,” Septimus says. “We’re all studying _ together, _ Annalise.”

“Yes, yes, we are.” Annalise nods quickly. “Forget I said anything, then.”

It’s hard to forget. That night, Harry lies in bed and dwells on all his worries. He can’t recall when they’d started to pile up so high.

* * *

The rest of the week is utterly normal all the way until their next Transfiguration class. Their class time is now occupied with practice and review. Professor Dumbledore walks about, adjusting and correcting them when he can. Harry decides to prioritize written over practical; his greatest difficulties in studying are with memorization.

When Professor Dumbledore reaches the front row, however, he pauses to gaze down at them. The bridge of his nose has a bend to it that Harry had never noticed before. The crook of it must not be recent, though, because the nose pieces of Professor Dumbledore’s glasses sit well, like they belong there.

“Mr. Potter, would you mind remaining after for a few moments? I would like to speak with you.”

Harry had just started on a third copy of his notes for the seventh chapter of their textbook. He sets his quill down to give Professor Dumbledore his full attention. “Of course, sir.” 

Tom, who had been practicing his spellwork, is now boring holes with his eyes into the side of Harry’s head. It takes effort for Harry to not glance at him.

Professor Dumbledore clasps his hands together, then looks to Tom before his attention wanders back to Harry. “Wonderful. Do you have any review questions for me?”

This time, Tom responds first. “No, sir. We’re fine, thank you.”

Professor Dumbledore hovers a second longer, then moves back to the other end of the classroom. Tom’s hand is tight around his wand, but he doesn’t say anything. Harry thinks that Tom doesn’t dare speak while Professor Dumbledore is still in the room; they might be overheard.

When the class ends, Tom packs his bag with haste. “I’ll wait outside,” he mutters.

Harry isn’t surprised by this. Tom will wait outside for him like always. “Okay. I hope this is quick.” 

Tom’s face is grim. “I should think so.”

The students empty out. Harry leaves his bag where it is and walks over to the podium where Professor Dumbledore is preparing his notes for his next class.

“Sir?”

Professor Dumbledore’s heavy gaze is as disconcerting as ever. Harry shifts his weight from one foot to the other, waiting.

“Ah, yes. I won’t be keeping you too long…” The notes on the podium shuffle themselves into a neat pile. Professor Dumbledore lays a hand down on the stack and smiles at Harry. “Perhaps this is an intrusion on my part, Harry, but I was wondering if you had any other fun ideas for Christmas presents this year? I must admit I found last year’s fuss to be quite the artistic adventure.”

“Christmas presents?” Then Harry catches the train of thought and adds, “Oh! No, sir, Tom and I are fine, thank you. It’s very kind of you to offer, but I have something else planned this year.”

Professor Dumbledore bobs his head. His eyes crinkle around the edges in a friendly way. Harry is uncertain where the conversation is going. Is Professor Dumbledore upset that Harry has made other plans? Did he think that helping with the Christmas presents would be a yearly meeting? Harry doesn’t know, and he feels it would be uncomfortable for them both if he were to ask about it now.

“Unsurprising, I must say,” says Professor Dumbledore. “You have my fullest confidence; I expect young Mr. Weasley and both Miss Greengrasses to be delighted by your choices.”

Strangely, Harry feels no relief at hearing this. “I hope so, sir.”

Professor Dumbledore hums, bouncing back on his heels the slightest bit as his face sombers. “And if you might permit your curious professor one more question?”

“Of course, sir. Ask away.” Harry thinks he knows what’s coming this time.

“The last time we met, we spoke of certain tensions between yourselves and some of your Slytherin classmates. Have those relations improved?”

If anything, they’ve worsened. But Harry isn’t about to say so. Tom wouldn’t like it if he did, and regardless of what Tom wants, Harry doesn’t want to make the situation any worse by escalating it. Bringing a professor into their problems at this point would only make the Slytherins respect them less and hate them more. “Thank you for asking, sir, but Tom and I are doing well.”

Professor Dumbledore inclines his head. Does he believe what Harry has told him? It’s near impossible to tell. The professor’s genial exterior is too off-putting for Harry to decipher it properly. “Then I believe I shall see you once the holidays have concluded,” says Professor Dumbledore. “Do send young Mr. Weasley’s parents my regards, will you?”

“Of course, sir, I’d love to.”

The eye crinkles return. “A Merry Christmas to you, then. And a happy birthday to Mr. Riddle, as well. May the new year bring all that you hope for.”

Harry hadn’t given much thought for what to hope for. But perhaps Professor Dumbledore has made a good point after all. He and Tom have been so caught up in all this mess that they’ve forgotten about the rest of what matters.

“Thank you,” Harry says. “Enjoy your holidays, professor.”

* * *

Later that evening, Tom and Harry return to their dorm early to pack their bags in preparation for staying with the Weasleys’. They don’t need everything with them, and so their trunks will remain here at Hogwarts. Harry rifles through his clothing as he relates his conversation with Professor Dumbledore to Tom. They are both trying to decide which items will be the most practical.

“Dumbledore’s only meddling again,” Tom says, matter of fact. “To get into our good graces. Not only you, Harry. Annalise as well, remember?”

Harry does, but he doesn’t see why. “Annalise does need help with Transfiguration, though. And Professor Dumbledore is our professor for that class.”

Tom scoffs and shoves a jumper into his bag. Then he seems to think better of it—he pulls the jumper back out, smoothing the fabric before he folds it properly. “I don’t doubt he’s noticed how the Slytherins treat us, Harry. But I am equally sure he believes us to be behind Lestrange’s accident.”

Harry chews on the inside of his cheek. “Do you think so? I suppose they weren’t bothering us so much at the start of the year.” And it’s only gotten worse since then, which is another mark against him and Tom.

“He can think what he likes, at any rate. We’ve done nothing wrong that he can prove.” Tom shuts the flap of his bag and tugs the straps tight.

That’s true enough. Harry fiddles with the cuffs of the shirt he’s holding. “Are you worried about the exam results?”

“No. Why would I be? I know everything.” Tom places his packed bag into his trunk, then locks it. When he looks up, his eyes are narrowed, sharp focus placed squarely on Harry. “Are _ you _ worried?”

“Not about the marks—I just mean, you know, what happens after.”

“Oh.” Tom closes his mouth, then glances over at the door. They could be interrupted at any moment. “I’m not worried about that.”

“At this rate,” Harry says, choosing his words with care, “someone is going to get hurt. And maybe it’ll be them, but maybe it’ll be us. We… we should think of a plan before this gets any worse.”

Harry can sense the change in Tom’s mood before he sees it. Expressions flicker over Tom’s face like a dying lamp, on and off and on. Irritation is the first emotion that spreads over the set of Tom’s brows and the line of his mouth. Then the heaviness of it vanishes, replaced by a different heaviness: resignation. But the resignation also fails to last, and soon there is only a disturbing amount of calm.

“I could have told you, Harry, that this would happen,” Tom says. His voice is oddly gentle. “Even if I hadn’t landed Lestrange in the Hospital Wing, this would have happened. They were not going to stop, no matter how nice we were, no matter how low we kept our heads down.”

Harry doesn’t want to agree. He doesn’t want to condone Tom’s words. Tom is willing to go to extreme lengths to deliver retribution. Tom doesn’t believe in leaving the loose ends behind. If Harry agrees, Tom will see his actions, past and future, as validated.

“So now you want me to do something?” Tom asks. The question is like a gentle prod, but his eyes are intent, dangerous. “You want me to stop them?”

Harry wants them to do the right thing, but there are no right choices here.

“We’ll see how things are after the holidays,” Harry says at last. “I don’t—let’s just enjoy Christmas, Tom. And your birthday. There doesn’t need to be any plotting during that.”

Tom walks over and places a hand on Harry’s elbow. “Of course, Harry. Don’t worry about it over the holidays.”

Clearly, Tom expects him to change his mind. Or else he thinks Harry will be more agreeable after the holidays are over. Tom will probably make a few attempts to convince him over the next while. Which is fine, Harry supposes, because he’d rather Tom share his ideas than not.

So Harry cracks a tired smile. “I’ll do my best.”

There is less than a week before the end of the fall term. The upcoming weekend will be spent studying, and then they’ll be in the thick of it. Harry’s not sure where he’ll end up, marks wise, after all is said and done—somewhere decent, he hopes, though he isn’t foolish enough to think he’ll ever surpass the highest ranks of students. 

Some of the Slytherin boys are very booksmart, very clever, much in the way that Tom is. Only none of them are Tom. Harry doesn’t know their study habits, but he’s seen Tom’s. He’s seen how _ hard _ Tom works to be the very best. Late summer nights spent clawing through textbooks, pages and pages of notes with Tom’s handwriting—elegant, sloping, the letters forced into perfection after an age of practice with the right hand over the left one.

It’s not only magic that comes naturally to Tom—it’s _ life. _ It’s hard work and determination and ambition. Traits that have seen them both into the spotlight here at Hogwarts.

Tom’s often said that people enjoy a good success story. It’s the sort of article that features in the papers all the time. Tom thinks they’ll be the ones in the papers someday, and Harry believes him. Having hopes and dreams has never come easily to Harry; they’ve always been too far from reality for him to give them any real consideration. 

It’s easier to follow Tom’s projected path to greatness because Tom is the one who is larger than life. He has visions of futures that make Harry’s head spin. Harry has only ever wanted a loving family, a well-paying job, and a place to call home. Some of those things he has now. He has Tom; he has his friends; he has Hogwarts. These are the stepping stones to what Harry believes embodies a good life.

But a good life is not the life he has, not yet. Harry has years to go before he reaches that point. Along the way, much can change. There are people to meet, decisions to be made, battles to be fought. The world pushes back against him, taunting him for daring to ask for more.

Harry wants a good life, a quiet life. Harry’s dream is that he will always have someone with him. His hope is that this someone will be Tom. Part of making that dream come true is helping Tom get what he wants, if only because Tom wants _ so much. _

Harry wants Tom to have everything he wants, because he deserves it, but not if the cost is too high.

Harry has nightmares where everything is consumed by a blazing, untameable fire, where the air is thick and smoke-filled, where his arms and legs are held stiff by invisible cords. Tom is either too close (raging, _ screaming) _ or too far (crying, _ pleading)._

On those nights, Harry wakes with the taste of bile in his throat and unshed tears blurring his eyes. Tom, of course, is already awake by then, either by coincidence or… something else. But Tom is always there for him, no matter what. Harry doesn’t need to agonize over whether to wake Tom up. 

But it feels wrong when Tom comes to comfort him. It feels like a betrayal. Still, Harry can never turn away. So he doesn’t; he lets it happen, lets Tom’s words of soft reassurance cover his heart like a warm blanket.

Tom will keep him safe. Harry has known that since the beginning of their friendship. Since the moment they moved into the same room. Tom cherishes Harry more than any possession he owns, more than anyone else they know. So long as they are together, Harry knows they can weather the worst of the world around them, only…

Harry has weathered himself to the bone. He’s carried the weight of it, has let the insults and the guilt slide off his shoulders, telling himself that it didn’t matter, that it _ wasn’t worth it. _

But Tom is right. It’s taken this long for Harry to see it, but Tom is right—this won’t go away on its own. Lestrange won’t give up until someone is hurt or worse. If Harry is to have a say in what happens, if he’s going to stop Tom from going too far, then he needs to take initiative. 

Fighting back on his own had never led to anything good, but now he has Tom to stand beside him. And Septimus, and Annalise, and Adelaide. Harry has people who trust him and support him.

He had told Tom to leave it alone for the holidays, and he’ll do his best to hold Tom to that promise. Then, once he’s sure Tom isn’t about to gallivant off into danger, Harry will think about what his own plan to stop Cassian Lestrange might look like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> continuing harry's pov for the winter holidays! we'll be seeing some more relationship shifts as they grow older...
> 
> hope everyone is doing well and taking care!


	19. departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The winter holidays are off to a rocky start for everyone.

The morning of their exam results, Harry wakes hours before dawn after only a few hours of restless, anxious sleep. His body trembles all over, cold sweat damp on his back and all across his forehead. Not for the first time, he doesn’t remember what he’d dreamed of. This doesn’t happen often. He usually remembers all of his nightmares in painful detail.

Lately, though, Harry finds he wakes more often in the middle of the night, a nameless fear pulsing in his chest. It unnerves him more than his regular nightmares, even if it’s not as scary. Something about forgetting terrifies him.

A few minutes pass. Harry settles his breathing down on his own, then casts his eyes to the hangings that hide Tom’s bed from view. Is Tom awake? Harry’s not sure. If Tom isn’t, then Harry doesn’t want to be a bother and wake him.

The dorm room is silent, filled only with the muffled snores of the other boys. Harry keeps his eyes open despite his weariness. He’s not ready to fall back asleep yet; he’s worried the nightmares will return. When he wakes for the second time, he might not be so lucky as to have forgotten it all.

Harry doesn’t know why he has so many nightmares. He ought to be too old for such things. He hates feeling small and afraid. He hates the memories they bring back. He hates that his nightmares drag all his deepest fears into the open: the burning cupboard, the cruel jibes, and the violent laughter. Worst of all, the idea that someday he and Tom will no longer be together.

So Harry doesn’t share the subject of his nightmares with Tom. How could he? Tom would be hurt by them. Tom is nothing like the bullies Harry has known. Tom would never hurt him. 

Tom only does things to protect him. To protect them both—

Harry knows that Tom only hurts people who he thinks deserve it, but his and Tom’s definitions of ‘deserve’ tend to differ. That won’t change easily. Tom sees the world in black and white, as two sides of a war.

Harry shakes his head and inhales a large gulp of air to clear his thoughts. He’s getting caught up in the same thoughts over and over again. All it does is upset him.

A few more hours, and then they’ll see the result of their hard work. Nothing new has happened since the day Harry decided he would come up with his own plan to deal with the Slytherins. It leaves Harry, and everyone else, feeling rather uneasy. Tom thinks the Slytherins are biding their time, and Harry supposes that has held true.

He and Tom have been productive in the meantime, at any rate. Tom has devoted a decent amount of time to helping Annalise with Transfiguration. It’s kind of him, but Harry knows better. Tom doesn’t want Professor Dumbledore to outdo him. Tom wants everyone to know he is the best so that they will always look to him first. 

Just outside Harry’s bed curtains, there is a soft rustling sound. Harry freezes, which is stupid because no one can see him right now anyways, then decides it must be Tom. It seems like they always wake together. It also seems like Harry bothers Tom with his problems no matter how hard he tries not to.

Harry sighs softly. It’s as good a reason as any to go back to bed. Whatever waits for them in the morning, there is no changing it now. 

* * *

The trip from Hogwarts to Hogsmeade station is uneventful. 

Harry, Tom, Septimus, and Annalise share a carriage ride together. Tom is at the top of the rankings, as expected, and Harry has scored the same as last time. It is all very anticlimactic, but Tom is pleased about his marks. His chest had been puffed with pride while their classmates congratulated him.

“I knew I would, of course,” Tom says to Harry in an undertone. “They may be privileged with their tutors and their large vaults, but they’re weak. They don’t know what it means to work for their own achievements. You’ll catch up soon enough, Harry. I’ll help you. Then it will be you and I at the top of the list every year.” 

Harry wants to believe it. He’d love to see his name listed under Tom’s and know that he belonged there because of his own merits. It’s just that Tom excels at  _ everything, _ all the time, almost effortlessly. Harry can’t count the number of instances where Tom has mastered a new spell on the first try. He can’t imagine himself doing the same thing. No matter how hard he studies or how much Tom helps him, there will always be subjects and spells that are difficult for him to learn.

Which is fine, really. Harry is content with the classes he is good at: Charms, Defense, Potions, and Transfiguration. He’s happy with what he has. Before they’d left for breakfast, Professor Dumbledore had given out copies of their marks to take home to their families. Harry’s parchment sits in his bag, neatly rolled. The only other person who will ever look at it is Tom.

Across from him, Annalise is tight-lipped and distant as their carriage bumps along the road. Had her marks gone well? Or, even if they had, were they good enough? 

Adelaide is probably somewhere in a carriage behind them. Harry has seen less of her lately. Annalise says her sister has been worried about exams and spending time more with her dorm mates. 

Soon enough they arrive at the Hogsmeade station and board the Hogwarts Express. Tom leads them into an empty compartment a third of the way down the train. The four of them sit—Tom and Harry across from Septimus and Annalise.

The train pulls out of the station. Tom brings out a book to read, leaving the rest of them to make quiet conversation. Septimus starts in on his plans for the holidays, going on about his family traditions and how they decorate the house. Annalise joins in here and there in an absent-minded manner, but she is mostly quiet, leaving Harry to hold up the other end of the conversation.

Halfway through the ride, Harry can tell something is not right. It takes a further fifteen minutes for him to realize  _ why _ he thinks so. Adelaide usually comes by to say hello, but as of right now their compartment has yet to be interrupted.

Harry wants to ask what’s going on, but the energy of the compartment is off. It’s not quite right. If he interjects now, he is fairly certain that he will cause more problems than he solves. So Harry shoves his curiosity down for the time being and sits on it all the way until they arrive at King’s Cross Station. 

If Tom notices anything, he doesn’t act like it. As they grab their things, Tom fusses over their cloaks and robes, intent on ensuring they both look perfect for when they greet Septimus’ parents. Harry has to bat Tom’s hands away from his hair, much to Septimus’ amusement.

“It’s a lost cause,” Harry mutters.

Tom tuts in a way that reminds Harry of Mrs. Cole. She used to cluck with disappointment at the way his hair refused to lay flat. Harry is sorely tempted to poke fun at Tom for acting like a crotchety old woman, but it is nice when Tom pays attention to him. It makes Harry feel important and cared for. He doesn’t want to dissuade it, not when their relationship continues to feel awkward and stilted at times.

“We’re going to be late,” Annalise interjects, thoroughly putting an end to Harry’s indecision with her anxious tone. “I still need to find Adelaide! She didn’t come to see us during the train ride.”

Septimus sucks in a breath. “I noticed but… I didn’t think too much on it. Is she alright, then? She seemed alright at breakfast.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken with her today.”

Tom tugs down his and Harry’s bag from the top racks. “Let’s disembark, then. She won’t be far off.” 

Tom is right. They’ve hardly touched their feet to the ground of King’s Cross when Adelaide comes barrelling over, bookbag slung around her shoulder, expression stern as she fixes her gaze on Annalise. Adelaide’s hair is pulled into a severe bun piled on the top of her head. It makes her serious expression look even harsher.

Annalise flashes a wide smile, but when she speaks, her voice is pitched and squeaky, faltering at the sight of her sister’s flat stare. “Adelaide!”

“Annalise.” Adelaide’s shoulders are stiff as she holds out a hand, waving it impatiently. “Let’s go. Sebastian said he’d wait for us at the next pillar over from the entrance.”

“Oh, but can’t we just have a moment? I haven’t seen you all day, really. Don’t you want to say goodbye?”

Adelaide looks the rest of them over. “Goodbye, Riddle, Evans, Weasley. Have a happy Yule.”

“You too,” says Septimus.

Tom slides his hands into his trouser pockets. “Happy Yule.”

Despite his misgivings, Harry can only echo the same sentiment as the others. “Happy Yule.”

Annalise grips the handle of her trunk and tugs it closer to her body. Then her brows tug together. “But I just—”

“We can’t stay here forever,” Adelaide snaps. “Alright? We have to go. Putting it off just makes it worse for both of us.”

“But—”

Adelaide takes Annalise by the arm. “We’re leaving. Let’s go.”

Annalise jerks backwards, eyes wide. “What’s  _ wrong _ with you? Why are you acting like this?”

“Not everything is about  _ you, _ Annalise!” Adelaide’s voice shakes, her hands balled into fists at her sides. She blinks rapidly, like she’s holding back tears. “Why can’t you just listen to what I say? You’re supposed to be the eldest, not me. I always have to do  _ everything _ for you because you’re afraid of your own shadow. I don’t know what the Hat saw in you, to put you into Gryffindor.”

Annalise starts to cry. Not loudly, not visibly, but a tiny hiccup escapes her mouth, and tears slip down her cheeks.

“You won’t even stand up for yourself,” Adelaide finishes, her jaw jutting out in defiance as though to prove her point. But as Annalise wipes at her eyes, Adelaide’s anger cracks, faltering. She tears her gaze away to the rest of the crowded platform, her mouth pressed into a thin line.

Tom stares dispassionately at the scene, likely unwilling to intervene. Harry feels guilty, though he’s unsure why. Perhaps he should have said something about Adelaide’s absence sooner. Had something upset her on the train?

“Adelaide,” says Septimus, in a voice just loud enough to carry over the uncomfortable silence. “That’s not alright.”

Adelaide swings around to look at him. Her irritation is plain on her face as she scowls. “This is none of your business, Weasley. Has it ever occurred to you that your parents don’t care about your grades because they already have older, more successful sons to boast about?”

The moment sharpens, freezing over like ice. Harry finds he has his breath held.

“Fine,” Septimus says flatly. “Maybe you are right about that, and maybe it isn’t my business what you say. But you won’t change my mind, Adelaide. I think you need to calm down.”

Alarmingly, Adelaide lets out a burble of hysterical laughter. “Right,” she says, once she’s pulled herself together enough to be coherent. Harry thinks he might see the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes, but he can’t tell for sure. “Annalise, come on. They’re waiting for us.”

Shockingly, Annalise inhales a shaky breath and nods. “Okay. Yes.” She holds out her hand for her sister to take.

After a pause, Adelaide grabs it, and the rest of them watch as the two girls walk off together.

“Let’s go find your parents, Septimus,” says Tom, speaking for the first time since the altercation had begun. “They’re likely waiting for us as well.”

Septimus grimaces at Tom’s bluntness, but says, “Sure, let’s go.”

* * *

Septimus’ parents are just as kind as they’d been at the start of the year. Harry notes that they don’t ask after anyone’s grades, although that may be because he and Tom are around. It wouldn’t make sense to ask Septimus about his marks in front of other people.

“Did Atticus get some time off for the holidays?” Septimus asks his mother.

Mrs. Weasley purses her lips together. “He has been trying, bless him. We may only see him closer to Christmas, I’m afraid. He told your father that he plans to work extra so he can have the days off that he wants.”

“I hope he can,” Septimus says, then looks over at—at him?

It takes a minute for Harry to realize why. Atticus is supposed to give him a proper healer’s check up. It’s nice that Septimus cares enough to remember that. Given the stress of the past few months, Harry had forgotten all about it.

“Atticus is very nice,” Tom agrees aloud, which is how Harry knows that Tom also remembers what Articus had promised to do.

Shortly after that, all of them Apparate to the Weasley’s home. It is only Harry’s second experience with Apparition, but it is infinitely preferable to the Floo. 

“You can both stay in my room,” Septimus says as they tromp up the stairs. “I can share with Nate or something.”

“You’re not staying with me,” Nathaniel calls from the ground floor. “It’s my room, sorry. There’s plenty of other space in the house.”

“Well, alright,” Septimus says, unbothered. He turns back to Harry and Tom. “Maybe I could fit you both in—”

“Septimus,” scolds Mrs. Weasley from a few steps ahead of them. “There really is only room for two people in your room, not three. You wouldn’t want to squish your friends into your room when there are perfectly good rooms in this house for them to stay in.”

“We don’t want to be any trouble,” Harry says awkwardly. “Any room is fine, honestly.” Then he glances between Septimus and Tom, trying to judge their reactions. Honestly, he wishes the three of them  _ could _ just share a room together. While he has roomed with Tom for years now, he also doesn’t want Septimus to feel left out.

“Harry and I are used to sharing a room together,” Tom says, “at the orphanage. I’m sure all of your rooms here are lovelier by far, Mrs. Weasley.”

Mrs. Weasley looks chagrined. “Yes, of course. Well, we don’t quite have the room for one each, as much as I’d like. But perhaps you and Harry can take Jon’s old room? I would believe it’s the one of the larger ones aside from the master bedroom.”

Tom smiles. “That would be wonderful, thank you.”

* * *

Jon’s old room is larger than their room at Wool’s. Harry and Tom watch as Septimus’ father unshrinks an extra bed into the mostly-empty space and summons bedding to cover it.

When all is said and done, both beds look exactly the same, which Harry is glad for. If it came down to a difference, Tom would try to give him the nicer bed. Harry isn’t in the mood to be babied. All he can think of is the way Annalise and Adelaide’s argument echoes in his head, making him uneasy.

Add on that his nightmares have been worse lately, and it is a recipe for disaster regardless of what bed he sleeps in.

“What do you think about what happened at the station?” Harry asks Tom later that evening, once they’re alone and assured of their privacy. 

Dinner had been a quick and painless affair with the Weasley parents, Septimus, and Nathaniel. After the long train ride, none of them had been much in the mood to engage in anything other than polite conversation. With an amused comment on their suppressed yawns, Septimus’ mother had then sent them all off to bed.

Tom smooths back the blankets on his bed in a thoughtful manner. “Adelaide is right. It’s none of our business.”

The answer is not surprising. Tom doesn’t tend to concern himself with the problems of others unless it suits him. It’s just that Tom had promised to make an  _ effort _ that Harry feels a need to speak up. “So you don’t care?” Harry asks bluntly.

Tom’s hands slow in their motions. He straightens up and turns to meet Harry’s stare. “It isn’t that I don’t care,” Tom says. “But what do you expect me to  _ do, _ Harry? If they’re having a spat with each other, then it has nothing to do with you or me. They’ll sort it out in due time on their own. Adelaide won’t stay mad at Annalise forever.”

Harry scrunches his brows up. It’s not that he disagrees with what Tom has said, it’s more that this feels like an excuse not to intervene. However, arguing won’t get them anywhere. Harry doesn’t want to start an argument today.

“I suppose,” Harry says. He walks over to his bed and falls onto it, spreading his arms and legs out for a moment before reaching for the covers.

Soon after that, the lights are out. Tom breathes softly from across the room, in and out at a steady rate. Harry shifts in place, trying to get comfortable. It will be a while before he can fall asleep, he realizes. He’s always had trouble with sleeping in new places. First at Wool’s, then at Hogwarts. Despite how friendly the Weasleys are, Harry doesn’t expect it to be any different here.

Still, he closes his eyes and tries to match his inhales and exhales with Tom. In a way, he’s glad that Tom is here with him. It would be strange to do this with Septimus. Not to mention it would be uncomfortable if Harry had a nightmare and woke them both up. At Hogwarts he has the privacy of his bed hangings and the spells cast on them. Here, he has none of that. He only has Tom as his silent protector across the room.

Harry doesn’t want Tom to pity him or feel a need to look after him, but he does have to admit that he is more comfortable knowing Tom is only a few steps away. It is with this in mind that he can relax his body and even out his breathing enough to feel sleepy.

Eventually, Tom’s quiet breaths send him drifting into slumber.

* * *

Harry wakes some hours later, sweating all over. He is shaking violently, wordless gasps forming in the back of his throat. The vividness of his fear consumes him, fills him with numbness. Harry feels trapped in his own body, unable to move, unable to call for help.

_ “Harry?” _

Tom rushes over and wraps his arms around Harry’s shoulders. Harry trembles and trembles like a crinkly leaf in the wind. Even Tom’s presence isn’t enough to dispel the panic coursing through him.

His lungs seize up, then, straining with the effort of keeping his erratic breaths steady. Harry coughs roughly, which prompts Tom to start patting his back. Then Tom mumbles some nice words that Harry can’t quite hear. Harry hates being like this. He hates that every time he gets into a panic, he can’t even breathe properly.

“T-Tom?” he rasps, trying to get enough air into his lungs to speak. His eyes are watery and slightly sore from being rubbed at.

“I’m here, Harry. Are you alright?” 

Harry isn’t, but Tom probably already knows that. After a few minutes, Harry is at last calm enough to squirm around in Tom’s embrace and look into his eyes.

“Feeling better?” Tom asks.

Harry nods, then sniffles, embarrassed. “Yes.”

“Good.” Tom’s voice is rough, a bit shaky around the edges. It’s unusual to hear Tom sound like that. Harry half-wonders if it’s just his own failure to focus on what Tom is saying. Maybe he’s imagining it.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” Harry says, and he’s glad to hear his own voice sounds a bit steadier. He shifts over so that they are sitting next to each other, arms touching.

When Tom replies, he sounds grim. “No trouble. I was already awake.”

Harry pulls his knees up to his chest. “You’ve been awake a lot, lately. At least one of us should be getting some sleep,” he jokes.

Tom taps his fingers on his thighs. “What are your nightmares about, Harry?”

“They’re nothing,” Harry lies. “I don’t even remember what I was dreaming about.” This, at least, is the truth.

“But you do, sometimes.” Tom nudges Harry with his shoulder. “You know you can tell me anything, Harry. I won’t be upset.”

Harry’s throat closes up. Everything about his life is related to Tom, even his nightmares. He trusts Tom with his life, but… but he can’t quite bring himself to trust Tom with this. “It’s not important,” Harry says, injecting firmness into the words.

_ “You _ are important to me. Perhaps if you talk about what’s upsetting you…?”

Tom has never pushed on this subject before. Harry had always been content to let Tom believe these nightmares were from the period of his life before they’d met. Back when Harry had been young and friendless and bullied. 

“They’re just nightmares,” Harry says quietly. “I’ll grow out of them eventually.”

“It’s upsetting you,” Tom insists. “You will feel better if you talk about it.”

“I said  _ no, _ Tom.”

Tom goes very still, and Harry worries that Tom’s gotten mad at him. Then Tom says, “If it was Septimus asking, would you tell him?”

Harry frowns. “That’s not fair, Tom. This has nothing to do with Septimus.”

“Fine. It doesn’t,” Tom says, and his voice is so flat that Harry has to resist the urge to shrink away.

“It doesn’t,” he repeats. “I’m sorry, Tom. I know you only want to help me but—” He pauses to take a deep, calming breath. “This is something I have to sort on my own.”

“I see.” Tom seems to relax; his hands smooth at his sleep trousers for a moment. Then he gives Harry’s hand a pat. “That’s alright, Harry. I believe in you.”

Harry is relieved. He had been firm about what he wanted, and Tom had listened to him. “Thank you,” Harry says, grateful. “I think we should go back to sleep now,” he adds.

“Do you want me to stay?”

Tom means in the bed, together. Harry nibbles at his lip, considering the offer. Part of him wants Tom to stay. Tom means safety. But he’d just said to Tom that he wanted to handle his problems on his own. It would be hypocritical of him to ask for help now, wouldn’t it?

“I’m okay. Thank you for asking.”

Tom sighs, the pass of air so quiet that Harry nearly misses it. “Very well. Good night, Harry.”

“Good night, Tom.” Harry feels the mattress shift underneath him as Tom’s weight pulls away. He ignores the pang that shoots through him and tries to go back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next tuesday is the one-year anniversary for this series! i will try to have another chapter out by then, but no guarantees. thank you for reading, your thoughts are appreciated!


	20. hospitality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets his long awaited healer's check up from Atticus Weasley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know negative one million things about healthcare, that's my disclaimer sfkldgjdfh

After their conversation, Harry finds that Tom keeps his word; there are no more questions about his nightmares. 

If anything, the incident seems to have convinced Tom that the level of care he provides needs to be increased. Each time when Harry wakes, Tom is already awake. Tom gives him hugs and pets his sweaty hair until his breathing evens out. Until Harry is calm enough to lie back down and go to sleep. Tom insists that Harry isn’t the one waking him, but Harry feels guilty all the same. 

Though Tom tries to hide it, Harry thinks that the severity of his nightmares must be scaring Tom, too. Sometimes Tom’s breathing is funny, and sometimes Harry can feel the rapid beat of Tom’s heart thudding in his chest. It’s not normal to have so many bad dreams, and it certainly isn’t normal to forget about so many of them. 

Jon’s room is far enough away from the rest of the rooms in the house that Harry hopes no one hears the few occasions where he wakes with a yell. It would bring up a lot of unwanted questions. He and Tom have been practicing the Silencing Charm at Hogwarts, but so far neither of them have seen Nathaniel or Septimus do any underage magic in the house. It’s safer to not risk getting in trouble.

Harry wishes he could have a normal childhood, but also he knows that if he had, he never would have met Tom at Wool’s. Maybe they still would have met at Hogwarts, but then that means Tom would have grown up all alone. 

So they’re okay, his nightmares. Harry can put up with them and hope that someday they will leave him. After all, the more time he spends at Hogwarts, the easier it is to forget.

* * *

Over the course of their stay with the Weasleys, Tom and Septimus are civil with each other. Harry figures it is because Septimus’ parents are watching. Tom wouldn’t dare try anything with watchful adults around, and Septimus isn’t about to misbehave in front of his parents.

In the meantime, Harry busies himself with Christmas presents. This year he had made a point to plan in advance. During one of his and Tom’s summer jaunts out and about in Diagon Alley, Harry had exchanged some of their sickles for Muggle pounds. From there, he’d convinced Tom that they ought to look through some second-hand Muggle bookshops.

Harry had enjoyed pouring over the selections to find just the right book for each of their friends. Tom had helped, too, giving opinions here and there, sometimes pulling a book off a shelf and offering it for Harry’s perusal. These were personal gifts without being too expensive. They were easier to wrap, too, because of the simple box shape, which Harry was glad for.

“Are you excited for Christmas?” Harry asks.

The three of them are on Septimus’ backyard porch, watching fat snowflakes fall from the sky.

“Christmas is brilliant,” Septimus agrees. “You’ll see how fun it is once everyone is here.”

“Everything is great so far,” Harry says. “Your parents are very nice, letting us stay.”

Septimus shrugs. “My parents aren’t strict about who I spent my time with. I would have bothered them until they said yes.”

“Do you know when Atticus will be here?” Tom asks.

If Septimus is surprised by the change of subject, he doesn’t show it. “We might not see him until Christmas, honestly. You’d think people would be more careful around the holidays, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. More so this year.”

“A shame, that.”

“Yeah, well, hopefully we’ll see him soon.” Septimus quirks the side of his mouth into a mild frown.

Harry feels a need to interject. “It’s okay if he doesn’t have time to look at me. I don’t want him to spend his holidays doing work.”

_ “Harry.” _ Both Tom and Septimus speak in the same exasperated tone. They cut off in the same way, too, and turn to look at each other, obviously irritated at their simultaneous outburst.

“Your health is important,” Tom says sternly.

“It’s no trouble, honestly,” Septimus adds. “Atticus told me he wants to help. He’s one of the best healers at St. Mungo’s. He’ll know how to help you if there’s anything wrong.”

Outnumbered by his friends, Harry can only fall silent. “Okay,” he says, when they continue to stare at him. “As long as Atticus wants to, I suppose.”

“Great.” Septimus beams.

Tom smiles and pats Harry on the arm in a way that it probably meant to be encouraging, not condescending.

Harry decides maybe he likes it better then they’re at odds with each other rather than ganging up on him to look after himself.

* * *

Harry has never known a family dynamic before, but he thinks that if he and Tom were ever adopted, he would want one like this. The Weasleys are wonderful hosts. Septimus talks freely to his parents about everything. It is a marked difference from the halting way Annalise often speaks of her and Adelaide’s home life.

Mrs. Weasley sets up games of wizard’s chess in the living room so they can play simultaneous rounds together, and Tom beats everyone except for her. Apparently during her time at Hogwarts, Mrs. Weasley had been something of a champion player.

Tom doesn’t seem to mind too much; after all, losing to an adult is hardly a mark of failure. But Tom does continue to play against her whenever the opportunity presents itself. He is determined to win. So Harry is not surprised when five matches later Tom at last declares a victory.

“Do they still do chess club at Hogwarts?” Mr. Weasley asks curiously.

Nathaniel is the one who answers. “It is less of a club and more of a casual group. Gobstones are all the rage now, so they’ve started their own club for that.”

“Gobstones.” Mrs. Weasley sniffs. “That foul liquid is something awful on the hair.”

“People have been using it to settle disputes,” Nathaniel continues, “which is better than dueling in the halls. Can’t say I’ll complain about that.”

“Do you catch many people dueling in the halls?” Harry asks.

Nathaniel shrugs. “Most aren’t brave enough to try. Or old enough, really. Dueling to settle an argument is an old tradition.”

Tom leans forward, elbows braced on the arm rests of his chair. “Tradition?”

“A belief that magic favours the strong and the worthy,” Mr. Weasley says. “In most cases, they mean magic inherited by blood. The rhetoric of many old families, though views are slowly changing.”

“Right,” Nathaniel says brightly. “Because of students like Tom and Harry.”

Harry flushes. “Not me.”

“Stuff it, Harry.” Septimus gives Harry’s shoulder a shove. “You’re smart! You work hard for your marks.”

“If Septimus says so, it must be true,” Mrs. Weasley comments from behind her mug of tea, like she’s sharing a secret.

“Harry’s great at Quidditch, too,” Septimus adds. “We’ll sweep the cup this year because of him.”

Harry wants to shrink into his chair, but he forces himself to stay upright. He is proud of his place on the Quidditch team.

Louisa had said people were hesitant to have two second years on the team. Usually tryouts were for older, more experienced players. But Louisa had assured them that she had faith he and Septimus would both be perfect additions to the team.

After playing actual games on the pitch, Harry feels like he has a solid place on the team. He is accepted as part of the group, as an important player in the lineup. Harry is proud of himself, and of Septimus, and he’s happy that all their hard work has paid off.

Septimus had put in a lot of effort to train himself up to Louisa’s standards. It’s a lot of effort that most people probably don’t notice because Septimus has always been a hard worker, has always been eager to lend a hand to those who ask for it.

Maybe it comes with the territory of having so many older siblings. It seems to Harry that Septimus has grown up in a household where people offered help before anyone needed to ask for it.

“We’ll squash Ravenclaw flat,” Harry agrees.

“That’s the spirit,” Nathaniel cheers. “I’m awful tired of listening to Roper brag at the end of every season. Can’t wait till Harry steals the Snitch from under his nose.”

At this point, Harry turns to take in Tom’s reaction. Tom smiles as soon as Harry looks at him, which could really mean anything if Harry didn’t know better. But because he does know better, he can pick apart the reaction.

Tom has many different smiles he offers to people. The charming, polite one he shows to their professors. The easy-going one he flashes to their fellow yearmates. The smirk that settles on his lips when he triumphs. Harry knows all of these. He knows Tom, and this is why he can read the edge of something else in Tom’s otherwise genuine smile.

“Harry can do anything he sets his mind to,” Tom says slowly. “It’s one of his most admirable traits.”

“The two of you are quite close,” Mrs. Weasley says kindly. “Like brothers.”

“Harry and I look out for each other,” Tom agrees.

“Tom is like family to me,” Harry says.

Mrs. Weasley sighs and regards them both with a patient, sad expression. “I don’t suppose either of you know anything about your parents? Or where you came from?”

“Sadly, no.” Tom exchanges a look with Harry.

Harry can only shrug and agree. “I’ve never met my parents. The matron said I was left at the orphanage with a note addressed to my aunt. They never found her, and even if they had… well, I don’t think she wanted me to begin with.”

The room falls quiet at Harry’s depressing proclamation. Harry regrets speaking. He should have held his tongue. It is nearly Christmas, and here he is, plaguing his kind hosts with his unimportant woes.

“That may be true,” Mr. Weasley says softly, reaching across to place a light hand atop Harry’s shoulder, “but you and Tom will always be welcome here with us.”

* * *

Atticus arrives at the Weasley home two days before Christmas Eve. He has dark circles under his eyes and looks as though he is liable to pass out in a dead faint at any moment. His parents fuss over him while the rest of them watch. Atticus takes it in stride, fending off his father’s attempts to wrestle him into a swaddle of blankets, and marches upstairs to his room for what he claims will be a short nap.

Concerningly, Atticus does not come down for dinner. Mrs. Weasley goes to investigate and reports that Atticus, the poor dear, is fast asleep and no one is to disturb him. As a result, dinner is more subdued than usual. Mr. Weasley debates aloud whether they ought to bring Atticus some soup, but in the end it is decided that it is better to let Atticus sleep off his fatigue.

Harry can tell that the Weasley parents are worried but do not want to cause further worry amongst their children. Septimus pokes at his plate with glumness while Nathaniel tells them about the Christmas present he’s purchased for Genie. After dinner, everyone goes about their usual evening while Atticus remains in his room, dead to the world for all intents and purposes.

“Does he normally get worn out like this?” Harry can’t help but ask. “It can’t be good that they’re working him this hard.”

“Atticus likes helping people,” Septimus says quietly. “He sometimes forgets that he has limits. This isn’t the first time he’s shown up here and slept through the day. I wish he’d take better care of himself.” Septimus frowns, his brows all bunched up. “I dunno. He’s wicked smart, though. He used to volunteer his time at the Hospital Wing while he was at Hogwarts. Turned down the Prefect role so he could have the time for it.”

“I hope he feels better soon,” Tom says. “It’d be a shame for him to fall ill so close to Christmas.”

“We’ve got potions,” Septimus says, turning his gaze to the sky. “Pepper-Up and other ones. I think mum will probably give him something when he wakes up. Dunno if he’ll take them, though. Atticus says it’s bad to develop a reliance on potions.”

Harry nods. “Makes sense.”

“Don’t worry, though,” Septimus adds quickly, glancing back over at Harry. “He’s got quite a few days off. We’ll make sure he can see to you before he has to go back.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Harry protests. “I don’t want him to be more tired because of me.”

“Merlin, Harry. It’s not a big deal, honestly.” Septimus sighs. “Looking you over isn’t the same as having to treat patients at St. Mungo’s. You should hear the stories Atticus has. People lose limbs on accident. This is nothing, I promise. Just some diagnostic spells and the like.”

“It’s for your own good,” Tom says. “We don’t want to go to the nurse at Hogwarts, Harry.”

That is true. The benefit of seeing Atticus is that his problems will be kept private. Or at least as private as they can be. Harry doesn’t want his past to follow him to Hogwarts, and he has the suspicion that Tom feels the same way. Hogwarts is a separate space from Wool’s; they will keep it that way.

Harry exhales a deep breath, his chest heavy with resignation. This is clearly a losing battle. He’s not quite sure why he continues to fight it, honestly. “When he’s feeling up to it, then.”

“Of course,” Septimus says. “The plan isn’t to overwork him, Harry, really. You worry too much.”

Harry does worry, but more than that, he feels guilty. It’s not right for both Atticus and Septimus to be putting him first, but it’s not like he has a say in the matter. Hopefully once all this is done, people will stop treating him like some fragile flower.

* * *

Atticus wakes up half past noon the next day. He spends about an hour being plied with food, water, and potions. His eyes are brighter, though, and his smile is more cheerful. This cheer spreads to Septimus, who is noticeably happier that his brother is doing well.

“I’m fine,” Atticus repeats, over and over again, running a hand through his floppy hair, pushing the bangs back from his face. “I’m fine, dad!”

The afternoon passes much the same way, with everyone watching Atticus for signs of fatigue. Atticus regales them with tales from St. Mungo’s, telling them about rude patients and unreasonable injuries.

“As if anyone could convince me that they accidentally Splinched all of their fingers exactly at the second joint. Specifically when there are clear signs of Dark magic cauterizing the edges.”

“What does that look like?” Tom asks. “Is it always obvious when there’s been tampering?”

Atticus makes a mild sound of disapproval. “Only to those who don’t know what they’re doing. Dark magic used to be a large chunk of our healing practices, decades back. People began abusing it, though, which is why I still get patients who’ve made mince meat out of themselves.”

“Sounds painful,” Harry comments with a wince. “Why do people still do it?”

“It works,” Atticus says simply. “If you do it right, it works. The benefits are there, clearly, but not everyone is cut out for handling powerful magic that can go catastrophically wrong. It takes a lot of discipline, more even than healing with Light magic.” Then Atticus stretched out in his chair, looking thoughtful. “There used to be plenty of apprenticeships for it, but the tradition has been slowly dying out. Nowadays, you’ll see healers like me who have been trained under multiple older, more experienced healers at public or private institutions.”

“One of our classmates was thinking about going into healing,” Harry says. “I didn’t know it was so complicated. The history, that is.”

“I imagine it is plenty interesting from a Muggle perspective.” Atticus frowns. “You’ll have to tell me how practices are in the Muggle world. I’m curious to see if there are similarities.”

Harry exchanges a look with Tom. Neither of them are overly familiar with doctors and hospitals. Harry’s own experience boils down to being treated for smoke inhalation and non-existent burns. “We don’t know much about it, but we can try?”

Atticus snaps his fingers, his face lighting up. “That’s right. I still need to look you over, Harry. Perfect! Fair trade, wouldn’t you say?”

“Sure,” Harry allows. It feels better than having nothing to offer.

“Wonderful.” Atticus stands up, and Harry is bewildered to realize that the man means for them to do the check up right now. “The upstairs bedroom will do. I don’t need a great deal of space.”

Harry gazes around the living room. Everyone is smiling and nodding at him, even Tom. Tom, who has also half-risen from his chair to follow. “Okay,” Harry says, a dull dread thudding in his chest.

The walk upstairs is quiet. Harry can’t place the source of his apprehension. Tom hovers at his elbow, a silent presence that should feel comforting. Only it doesn’t, and this only serves to confuse Harry further.

It is only when they reach Jon’s room that Atticus shifts his pensive gaze to the both of them. “Tom, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to wait outside.”

“What? Why?”

“Patient confidentiality,” Atticus says, not unkind as he smiles in Tom’s direction.

“Harry and I are like family,” Tom insists. “We take care of each other.”

Atticus kneels down. His hand reaches out, nearly settling on Tom’s shoulder, but then he seems to think better of it as he braces both hands on his thighs instead. “It’s very admirable, Tom, that the two of you are so close and care so deeply for each other. But when I undertook the path of a healer, I made an oath, and that oath requires me to ensure that Harry has the right to privacy while I look him over.”

Tom stares in silence for a moment, then nods. “I can wait outside?” he asks.

“Of course you may.” Atticus does give Tom’s shoulder a pat, and Harry smiles at the miffed expression on Tom’s face.

“Only if Harry says it’s alright,” Tom says stubbornly.

“It’s fine,” Harry says, resigned to his fate. It’ll be faster if Tom isn’t around to ask nosy questions.

After a beat, Tom flashes a smile. “I’ll wait for you, then,” Tom promises, like he has so many times before. Then he shifts his gaze to Atticus for a moment, his eyes narrowing, and Harry knows that the slight of being left outside is not yet forgiven.

Oblivious to Tom’s ire, Atticus pushes the door to their room open. Harry exhales, a deep gust pulled from his lungs, and follows.

* * *

Harry swings his legs up and down, bumping his shins against the bedding. Atticus hums absently as he makes marks on a sheet of parchment. Is the check up done? Harry wants to know what Atticus is writing, but it’d probably be rude to pry.

Then Atticus taps the father of his quill on his face and says, “I think we’re done here. Would you like for us to talk about what I’ve noticed?”

Harry shrugs. His anxiety has yet to die down despite Atticus’ calm, almost impersonal manner. Whatever Atticus is about to say, it is unlikely it will make Harry feel better. Atticus had cast a number of spells, harmless ones that made his body tingle in strange places or light up with bright colours. Then Harry had been asked to cast some basic spells with his wand and to do a few stretching and breathing exercises. 

While those things were going on, Atticus had asked him about Muggle healing, and Harry had done his best to answer. The conversation had kept Harry’s mind occupied, which was a nice distraction from the discomfort of the medical spells.

It was only when Atticus had asked him to remove his shirt that Harry had gotten tense and anxious. Harry had done it because he knew it was necessary. Atticus had not commented on his stressful, panicked breathing, he had only continued a low dialogue of reassuring words that washed over Harry without their meaning fully registering. But once the few spells cast on his chest were done and out of the way, everything else had been fine. Overall, the entire experience had felt very professional and thorough to Harry.

“Okay,” Atticus says, gesturing for Harry to sit back down on the bed. “What I think is important for you to know is that, compared to Muggles, your natural magic enables you to heal faster and be more resistant to injury. This is especially true for younger children. Because of that, a good deal of the damage in your body, I suspect, has been somewhat repaired over time.”

This is surprising. Harry knows that there are things wrong with him, injuries hidden away that only make themselves known every so often, but to hear that they could have been _ worse… _

“That said, I must add that the amount of lingering damage is still a cause for concern. Would I be correct in guessing that you have been severely injured on multiple occasions?”

Harry nods, not trusting his voice. He wants to shut his eyes, to block out the sudden memories, but he keeps them open and fixed on Atticus’ face, wanting to give the man his full attention.

“As you grow older, the symptoms will lessen, but I would like to start you on a proper regime of health potions now. You’re still very young, Harry, and there is all the chance in the world that we can reverse all or most of the damage to your body. I’ll put in an order with St. Mungo’s under my name. No one will have to know they’re for you.”

“Okay,” Harry rasps. Then he ducks his head and coughs a little to clear the mucus gathered in his throat.

Atticus frowns and steps closer, placing a gentle hand on Harry’s knee. “I won’t ask what happened unless you feel comfortable telling me, but I noticed that your injuries are at least a few years old. Are you in danger at home, Harry? Do you need help? If you can tell me that you’re safe now, then I’ll believe you. But if you think you might get hurt again, then I am willing to help as much as I can.”

Harry is shaking his head before Atticus even finishes speaking, but he lifts his eyes back up and stares into deep blue. “I promise I’m not in any danger. I’m safe at Wool’s. With Tom.” There is more danger at Hogwarts, where their enemies are more powerful. For once, Harry understands the benefit of Tom’s tyranny at Wool’s.

“You didn’t always used to be with him?”

“No. We met when we were kids. When I was nine. I got—I was moved from a different orphanage.”

Atticus watches Harry intently for a second. “Okay. Then if you have no other concerns, I think we are done here for today.”

“Great.” Harry lets out a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, Harry.” Atticus smiles. “I’m happy to help. I’m going to talk to Nate later tonight and tell him to let you use our owl to send me a message while you’re at Hogwarts if you need to, if that’s alright.”

“I won’t need to,” Harry says quickly. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”

“Ah, but you’re my patient now. I have a small amount of responsibility to make sure you stay healthy.” Atticus pats Harry’s arm. “Healer’s oath, you understand. No way around it.” There’s a twist to Atticus’ mouth that makes Harry think this healer’s oath concept is a tad suspicious.

“Just how complicated is this oath?” Harry asks crossly.

“Nothing very complex,” Atticus says, laughing. Then he sobers and adds, “I am here to look after your health, which means I need you to contact me if there are issues. Consider it me taking my job very, very seriously.”

Harry sighs and stands up, placing his feet on the floor. Tom’s been waiting outside long enough. It’s easier just to agree. “Okay,” Harry says. “I’ll write if there are problems.”

“Excellent. I genuinely hope that there are no reasons for you to write to me. And if you and Tom are over for Easter, I’ll see about taking another few days to come visit, how’s that?”

“Septimus would like that,” Harry agrees readily.

Atticus’ eyes do a funny crinkle on the edges. “You’re a good person, Harry. I’m glad Septimus has a friend like you.”

Harry scuffs the toe of his shoe on the floor. “Septimus is a great friend to have. And I know he looks up to you.”

“All the more reason to let me help you then, yes? Less worry for Septimus, less worry for me.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I suppose.”

Atticus claps his hands together. “Then I think we’ve kept Tom waiting long enough. Let’s head out, shall we?” With a wave of his wand, Atticus dispels the magic he’d put on the door to keep out eavesdropping. Harry wonders how Tom feels about being shut out, but he doesn’t have to wonder long—the door swings open, revealing Tom sitting on the floor, his arms wrapped around his knees and a pensive expression on his face.

Tom scrambles to his feet upon seeing them. “Well?” he demands, the irritation in his tone barely repressed as he stares at them both.

Atticus offers Tom a friendly smile. “I’ll leave you both to discuss it,” he says, then departs for the stairs.

Tom turns a softer gaze in Harry’s direction. “Are you alright, Harry? What did he say to you?”

Harry has no doubt that if he was to say anything remotely negative, Tom would march right over to the stairs and try to send Atticus toppling down to the ground floor. “I’m fine, Tom. Atticus was very kind. He’s going to get me some healing potions for my lungs and things.”

Tom’s eyes narrow. “Didn’t Septimus say that it was bad to rely on those?”

“If you don’t need them.” Harry shrugs. “Atticus said if we start early, we can fix most of my problems.”

Tom presses his lips together. “Like the breathing?”

“I think so.”

“We’ll see how it goes, then,” Tom decides distantly. Then his eyes flicker back to Harry and he adds, “If that’s what you want.”

It takes a second for Harry to remember what he wants. “Yeah, I do want to. I think… I think it will help. I’d like to try and see.”

“Then that’s settled.” Tom nods and reaches for Harry’s elbow, holding it in place. His fingers curl around the bone. Comforting. Steady. “We’ll try and see.”

Harry nods in return. They are in this together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all here is me with yet another chapter of this story. much love to you all <3


	21. home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Christmas holidays come to a close. As Tom and Harry return to Hogwarts, Harry reflects on the meaning of home and family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reminder you can see my hastily written summary/recaps [here!](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1QhDAZjWA9Y3_YqzBgGIkZjUq4OUEf1QZ6tP23XEjqaU/edit)

Christmas is something out of a dream. It is nothing like the Christmases he and Tom used to pass at Wool’s, but it is also different from the Christmases they’d spent at Hogwarts. All of the Weasleys are cheerful, joyful. The holiday feast is as plentiful as any Hogwarts dinner, but the atmosphere is warmer and kinder. 

Hogwarts is home, more of a home than Wool’s or any other orphanage has ever been, but it is not the same as a house. Harry feels safe in this house, as safe as he does at Hogwarts, but he also feels welcome here. Hogwarts does not have Atticus’ strange tales from St. Mungo’s about the patients’ ongoing disagreements on mayonnaise, or Nathaniel’s embarrassment over the six pairs of Holyhead Harpies socks he’d gotten from Genie for Christmas, or Septimus’s justified hogging of the gravy boat (he’d made it for his parents at the ripe age of seven).

It is the little details that make a house a true home and make a group of people into a true family. There is nothing more magical than the fact that there are so many people in this place who love each other. Over Christmas dinner, Harry and Tom get to know Septimus’ other brothers:

Jonathan works as an assistant in the Department of Mysteries at the Ministry. He loves to talk about anything; Harry can suggest any topic at all and be treated to a rant about it. Tom finds this annoying, but Harry likes to listen, to let words and concepts wash over him. Harry asks about wizarding traditions, about dueling, about how magical homes are built. Jonathan also loves to talk about his family, and the politics of the world around them. Politics is a topic that Tom finds interesting enough to sit through, Harry notes with amusement.

Matthias is an artist who paints commissions for magical portraits. He shows them some of his various paints and explains the magical properties of the different colours. The process of making a magical portrait is a mix of painting and potions making, which comes as a surprise to Harry. He’d assumed that the process would be just like Muggle painting, only with magical paints. For Christmas, Matthias paints a lovely sketch of Tom's stone snake next to Harry's stone lion and gifts it to them.

Radford has three daughters and a wife named Astrid. The girls, triplets, are a few years older than Nathaniel, and they have brought a large container full of baked goods to share at Christmas dinner with the family. The girls are very nice, but Radford is not always so nice. He pesters his brothers with questions about their careers and makes jokes about how Nathaniel finally has a girlfriend. Harry decides he doesn’t like Radford very much.

Cordarius works as an archivist in Greece. He is an expert on ancient manuscripts and is very interested in the history of the magical world. Mostly he seems content to sit and watch his family laugh and bicker with each other, but he is close with Nathaniel; the two of them talk together about books they've read and the books they'll read next. Tom jots down a list of several titles for later research.

Overall, it is an enjoyable holiday. During all of the merriment, Harry forgets about his troubles. Or at least he is able to shelve them temporarily. Most of Septimus’ brothers leave as soon as they’d come, returning to their busy lives. It feels over far too soon; Harry wonders if Septimus is always missing his brothers and the vibrancy they bring into a room.

“I like it when they’re here,” Septimus says with a shrug. “But it’s nice when they’re gone, too. The house is a little quieter and I can do stuff without people breathing down my neck.”

“Solitude is nice,” Tom says, which is one of few times he’s agreed with Septimus since they’d come here.

“The house is hectic when we’re all here at once. Like a hurricane swept through, mum says.” Septimus stretches his legs out in front of him. “Nate told me we’re to let you borrow our owl, by the way. You know you could have asked me any time, I swear I would have let you.”

Harry flushes. “It’s not like that,” he protests. “It’s only that Atticus made me promise to mail him if anything happens during the school year.”

“Oh.” Septimus frowns. “How did that go, by the way? None of you really said.”

“Patient confidentiality,” Tom replies in a cool tone.

Septimus eyes Tom with doubtfulness, which Harry supposes is valid. Septimus must know that Harry tells Tom everything, confidentiality or not.

“Did he mention, you know—” Septimus pushes at the fringe of hair over his own forehead.

“No,” Tom says, once again answering for Harry, but this time he’s frowning.

“Ah.” Septimus is frowning, too. “He must not have thought anything of it. When I asked him about the topic before, I never mentioned your names. I only said that it came up at school.”

Tom looks conflicted; Harry thinks he knows why. On one hand, Tom wants privacy. He wants for them to be self-sufficient, for their special connection to be theirs and theirs alone. On the other hand, Tom would never allow for Harry to be placed in harm’s way because of a stone left unturned.

“He gave me a full-check up,” Harry reminds them both. “There are spells that check for magical damage, and Atticus told me he went through them all. I’m sure if there was an issue, he would have mentioned it, so there must not be anything to worry about.”

“Then you best write to him if anything does come up,” Septimus says warningly.

Harry shrugs, trying to make the motion casual. “I already promised him I would.”

“Everything is handled,” Tom interjects, nonchalant attitude back in place. His eyes flicker over to Harry, and the message is clear:

_ If something comes up, _ Tom’s sharp gaze says,  _ then you will come to me first. _

* * *

A letter from the Greengrass sisters arrives at the Weasley home a few days before the new year. Adelaide offers them belated holiday wishes and has enclosed Tom’s birthday present.

_ Our parents were invited to a private gala this Yule, _ she writes.  _ Annalise and I were not permitted to attend, so I can only imagine what went on. _

_ According to Sebastian, there were many notable figures in attendance. Of course, everything Sebastian says must be taken lightly, but Professor Dumbledore was most definitely there. Minister Spencer-Moon has promoted him to Chief Warlock, if you can believe it! I wonder how he will have the time to teach in addition to this new position. _

_ All of this is a popular topic of conversation, undoubtedly, and much credit has been given to our Professor’s article on the uses of dragon’s blood. They are calling it the discovery of the century. I can’t say I’ve given much thought to the study of Alchemy, but perhaps now I will... _

_ Other Pureblood families in attendance included the Blacks, the Boneses, the Lestranges, the Parkinsons, and the Potters. Mother boasts that if we were to host such a gathering, the guest list would be more impressive. I am not sure where her delusions come from; we may be an old, wealthy, Pureblood family, but we are hardly influential. _

_ There is more to say, but I will wait for the term to resume before I bore you to tears with the details. I will add that the Ministry has been flapping its wings like a headless chicken over the Muggle war, amongst other things. Father finds it amusing. _

_ Annalise also sends her love to you all. We shall see you again in the new year. _

_ Best regards, _

_ Adelaide Greengrass _

Her casual mention of the Potters is jarring, but then again, they had all sworn to keep the secret of Harry’s heritage to their little group only. It is sensible for Adelaide to bury that particular family name into a list of others.

Tom reads the letter twice over before handing it back to Harry. “Whatever she has to add must be too confidential to put into a letter.”

“I suppose we’ll find out later, then.” Harry folds the letter up and tucks it away with everything else he keeps—an endless amount of letters, notes, and cards given to them by their friends. He’s got quite the collection going now that they’ve gone through over an entire year’s worth of holidays and birthdays.

Adelaide’s letter is more informative than sentimental, but Harry finds himself rereading it over the next few days. What’s awful is that he finds himself rereading it specifically whenever Tom isn’t around. Harry feels guilty for thinking about the Potters, but he can’t help it—he wants to know more about them. What they look like, where they work, if he’s been named after anyone the way Tom has.

It is only when Harry gets a spare moment alone with Septimus that he finds the courage to ask one of his many burning questions. “Have you ever seen or met the Potters before?”

Septimus doesn’t answer straight away. He takes a second to turn around, to look Harry in the eye. “No, I haven’t. My parents are too old to have gone to Hogwarts with them. The Potters tend to keep to themselves. They’re not the flashy sort.” There is a longer pause. Just before Harry is about to change the subject, Septimus asks, “Why do you ask?”

“I was only curious,” Harry says, the words slipping out quickly—too quickly.

“Nothing wrong with that,” Septimus agrees. He nods once, then glances at the open door. “Did you want to look into it some? I’m sure the girls wouldn’t mind helping. Or if you don’t want to bother them, I can do it on my own.”

“No, no,” Harry says, “you don’t have to, really.” Septimus looks so serious about all this, which is the last thing Harry wants. “It’s alright! It isn’t important—I was just curious, like I said.” 

“Sure. Not a problem.” Septimus smiles. “Why don’t we see if anyone’s up for a game of chess?”

Harry allows the knot inside his chest to unravel. “Sounds like fun,” he says, but he wants to know that Septimus won’t bring this up again. What Harry really ought to do is ask Septimus not to do that, but Harry hates keeping secrets from Tom. If he tells Septimus not to bring it up again, then he’s acknowledging that he doesn’t want Tom to know, and that is an acknowledgment Harry is not willing to make, even for his own peace of mind.

So he will leave it be, and the conversation will hopefully become a distant memory.

* * *

All too soon, it is time for them to return to Hogwarts. Much to his dismay, Harry realizes that he hasn’t given much thought at all towards dealing with the Slytherins. The excitement of the holidays had successfully distracted him from planning, and now that they are returning to Hogwarts, Tom will expect full rein in dealing with the problem.

It isn’t that Harry doesn’t trust Tom to handle the situation. It’s more… he’s worried what the consequences may be. If Tom fails a second time, they may not be lucky enough to escape. But Tom’s pride is a restless thing, the rush of winning duels in the corridor will not be enough to satisfy him. Tom will not rest until the Slytherins suffer for what they’ve done, for what they’ve threatened to do.

During the ride back to Hogwarts, Adelaide and Annalise talk about the private gala hosted by the Rosiers.

“Sebastian hints at grander wheels turning,” Adelaide says crossly. “He won’t say what, but I’m certain if I push him enough, he won’t be able to help himself. As if he’s important enough to be of value to anyone.” She scoffs. “Perhaps because he stands to inherit, but that won’t happen for years to come.” Her lips thin out. “Or never, if I have my way.”

Harry’s never heard Adelaide speak in such ominous tones before. “Was there anyone else we know at the gala?”

“No one our age.” Adelaide exchanges a glance with her sister. “Besides, that’s hardly the most important part—”

“Is it Dumbledore?” Tom interrupts, leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees. “You said there was more to the gala that you couldn’t speak about.”

“Yes, but not about him.” Adelaide glares at Tom, likely because he had cut her off mid-sentence. “There’s a group of wizards who are Sebastian’s age that seem likely to cause trouble. I can’t say exactly what they have planned, but it can’t be good. A few of them have gotten in trouble for Muggle-baiting in the past.”

“Muggle-baiting?” Harry asks.

“Pranks and the like,” Septimus says. “Mostly harmless, but sometimes it can go too far. Either way, it’s against the law for Muggles to know about magic.”

“Difficult for them to know what isn’t supposed to exist.” Adelaide shifts back in her seat and folds her arms across her chest. “Muggles will not be reporting what they’ve seen to the Aurors, they’ll be reporting to their police. So most of the time nothing gets done, and even when someone is caught, it’s hardly a slap on the wrist. People like Sebastian think the law is a joke.”

“So they break the law,” Tom muses, “and pick on harmless Muggles. You think they’ll get themselves arrested, is that it?”

“I hope so,” Adelaide huffs. “But I’m not certain.”

“Sebastian won’t say,” Annalise says worriedly. “If our brother ends up in St. Mungo’s because he’s crossed the wrong person, I won’t be surprised.”

“Many of these older families have entire libraries dedicated to Dark magic,” Adelaide adds.

“And Sebastian thinks he’s a dueling prodigy.”

The girls exchange a second glance. This time, their shared gaze is full of exasperation.

“What does this have to do with us, then?” Tom asks. “If something awful does happen to him, then that’s all the better for you. Unless you plan to hasten his demise?”

“Whatever it is that he’s gotten himself and his friends into, he thinks there’s something valuable to be gained from it,” says Adelaide. “This is the most motivated I’ve ever seen him. We should find out what it is. Even though they’re idiots, it could be useful information for blackmail.”

The casual tone throws Harry for a moment. Harry’s never heard anyone other than Tom talk about these things before. “Blackmail is  _ also _ breaking the law,” Harry points out.

“Yes, well, they’re rotten people,” Adelaide says. “It’s not the worst thing that could happen to them.”

“Imagine,” Annalise says in a low voice, “if we could blackmail one of them into making the Slytherins leave us alone! Wouldn’t that be the best plan?”

“It sounds like there are many things that could go wrong,” Septimus says. “Just because getting help from an older student worked the first time, doesn’t mean it’ll work again.”

“It’s only an idea,” Adelaide says, but she sounds irritated. “Besides, aren’t you tired of dueling like animals in the corridors? One of these days you’ll be caught, and then what? It’s poor taste  _ and _ against the school rules. Everyone will think you’re mannerless Mudbloods who don’t know how to hold a proper duel.”

Septimus clears his throat. “They do now. We went over the steps over the holidays. Jon went over it with us.”

“Then we’ll have to review it together,” Adelaide says impatiently, waving it off. “I doubt your brother knows everything there is to know about traditional duels. Have you ever been to a dueling competition, Weasley?”

“No, but Jon’s had a lot of jobs, and one of them was organizing a dueling competition.”

Adelaide does not scowl, but her lips do twist in a way that leads Harry to believe she’s reluctantly impressed. “Well, we’ll be going over it again. You have to learn things the  _ traditional _ way, not only the way they do them in the dueling circuit. It’s very important to know the difference.”

“I’m interested in hearing the differences between the two,” Tom agrees, and that seems to put an end to the conversation.

The subject changes to talk of Christmas presents. Annalise spends the rest of the train ride talking about the romance novel Harry had picked out for her. 

“My parents would never buy this for me,” she says mournfully. “After I finish reading it, I may have to give it to you for safekeeping. I don’t know if I could keep it hidden in the house all summer and I don’t want to lose it.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Harry says. Truthfully, he is very relieved. After asking the bookstore owner a few awkward questions, he’d been given a few options to choose from. Looking the summaries over had not helped much, so Harry had simply chosen the one with the nicest cover and hoped for the best.

Tom is staring out the window, likely bored by the conversation topic. As the compartment falls silent, Harry shuffles closer and nudges Tom with his arm.

“Hmm?” Tom’s eyes focus on Harry’s face, the distant look in them fading as he gives Harry his full attention.

“Will we make a plan for this term?” Harry asks, just to see what Tom will say. He is aware that the others are watching them, listening to them. They will hold Tom accountable for whatever he says now.

“Of course we will,” Tom says. His expression is impassive, his lips pursed in a neutral line as he thinks over his answer. “I have a few ideas, but we’ll need to reassess once the term begins properly.”

“I think blackmail will work the best,” Annalise insists. “That’s what they tried to do to you, Tom.”

“We’ll see,” Tom says, but Harry thinks that Tom may be considering it. It would be the Slytherin thing to do; Tom would love to triumph over the Slytherins by succeeding where they had failed. To Harry, blackmail feels like another escalation that has the potential to go horrifically wrong.

Their train compartment is not the place to talk about this, though. Harry is wary of listening ears and lurkers in the hallway. He is also wary of what he says to Tom in front of their friends. Being Tom’s friend is as good as being in Slytherin, Harry thinks dryly to himself. Tom may be reckless enough to fit in with Gryffindor house, but his methods will always be cunning, ambitious. To understand Tom is to understand those traits intimately.

So instead of speaking, Harry merely nods and tries to convey his sincerity with his smile. They will discuss this together at a later time; Harry has faith. He wants to have faith that their troubles will soon be far behind them, that Tom will share his plans and relieve the burden of stress and worry that Harry has carried for the past few months.

Tom nods back, also smiling, and Harry feels reassured. Tom’s nod is an acknowledgment of Harry’s concerns and a promise to hear them out. Perhaps they will resolve their problems with blackmail, or a duel, or something else entirely. What matters most to Harry is that they do so together. Hogwarts is wonderful, but it would not be nearly as wonderful without Tom by his side.

After they arrive at Hogwarts, have supper, and are tucked into their warm beds, the golden high from their time at the Weasleys has slipped away, much like a pleasant dream does after waking up. Harry stuffs an arm under his pillow to get comfortable and thinks about what it means to have a home. 

The orphanage is not home. A few weeks ago, Harry might have called Hogwarts home, but now that he’s been to the Weasleys, he thinks that’s not quite true. Hogwarts is a sanctuary, but it is not a home. There are adventures to have and spells to learn, but at the end of the day, it is not this four-poster bed that Harry truly longs for. 

When the day is over, when everyone else is asleep, what Harry wants the most is to talk with Tom. So maybe home will be wherever they choose to go together once they are finished studying at Hogwarts. Or maybe home is not always a place. Maybe it is a person.

Septimus may be content to see his brothers come and go over the course of the year, but Harry couldn’t stand to be parted from Tom for that long. It may be a far cry from how Harry felt when Tom had first manipulated Mrs. Cole into making them roommates, but it is true nonetheless. Harry likes his friends, the people who come and go from his life over the course of the day, but he likes Tom the best, and he thinks that Tom likes him the best, too.

With one final yawn, Harry stretches his legs and wiggles his toes underneath his pile of blankets. In the morning, he might try to broach the topic of the Slytherins with Tom before the rest of their roommates wake. For now, he will sleep and hope for a pleasant dream that will carry him through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> been a long time since the last update. this story is still hanging around! i feel i've been struggling with this particular arc for years sdklgjsklgjs. i do hope i will find the strength to wrap it up soon so we can continue with more interesting things.
> 
> thank you all for reading and continuing to support this story, it means a great deal to me.

**Author's Note:**

> find me & my writing updates on tumblr [here](https://duplicitywrites.tumblr.com)!
> 
> feel free to join my personal discord server for my writing [here](https://discord.gg/BJRP4A5)!


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